


A Virtue of the Brave

by juliet, laurashapiro



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Aziraphale has schemes, Aziraphale is passive-aggressive, Blow Jobs, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is a well-adjusted demon, Crowley loves him anyway, Cunnilingus, Ethics, F/F, Fingering, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Hand Jobs, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Historical, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Moral Philosophy, Other, Rimming, She/Her Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Switching, Teasing, always lovers, banging through the ages, never really enemies, they are male-presenting most of the time though, they're switches bitches, various gender presentations/efforts/pronouns throughout the ages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:40:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25268512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliet/pseuds/juliet, https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurashapiro/pseuds/laurashapiro
Summary: What if — what if Crowley weren’t a demon?The idea wasn’t ridiculous at all. God’s capacity for forgiveness was infinite. If Crowley were sufficiently contrite (never mind that Aziraphale had never in four thousand years seen Crowley be contrite about anything), if Crowley asked God for forgiveness...might God not then return Crowley to the Heavenly Host?Aziraphale’s chest went tight and heavy at the thought. Oh, how wonderful! A demon restored to grace! Crowley, safe in the light! Aziraphale clenched his hands together and prayed fervently.It wasn’t until he actually bumped into Crowley again that he realised that an idea, no matter how glorious, is not in fact a plan.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 212
Kudos: 221





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So Neil Gaiman writes a bit of ridiculous dialogue in ep3, probably just to show how awkward and surprised Aziraphale is. “Still a demon, then?” he says. And I _cannot stop thinking about it_. Juliet, thank goodness, was willing to take this project on with me, or it never would have happened at all. And a year later, this is what we have to show for it. So much gratitude to Juliet for their wisdom, camaraderie, and talent. I fucking love working with you, my friend.
> 
> I also want to acknowledge an anon on the kinkmeme who was looking for a historical story in which they had been fucking the whole time, but with their love mutually acknowledged, unlike the usual pining stories. Anon, it’s been months and months and I cannot find you now, but here’s your fill. — Laura
> 
> Bloody hell, this took a while. When Laura said “so I’ve got this idea…” and I went “oooh, yes”, I did not envisage that it would take us EIGHT MONTHS to get it out; but then, _circumstances have been somewhat challenging_. It has, despite that, been a lot of fun. Deep, abiding, and affectionate gratitude to Laura for being very patient every time I wailed “I just can’t this week!”. — Juliet 
> 
> This story is complete and will be posted in four chapters, one chapter a week, every Wednesday.

_Forgiveness is a virtue of the brave — Indira Gandhi_

**Garden of Eden, 4004 BC**

Water was falling from the sky. Little drops pattered on Aziraphale’s wing, where it stretched over the demon next to him. They splattered into his hair, ran down over his face, and soaked into his tunic. 

It was beautiful, like all of God’s creations here on Earth. The sensation was thrilling, even wondrous. It was also cold.

Aziraphale hoped the sword would keep the humans warm enough to be comfortable. His stomach twisted. If only the demon hadn’t given them the apple, Aziraphale wouldn’t have had to give them the sword! They wouldn’t have to be out there in the cold and wet at all — they’d be safe and cosy in the garden like before.

Oh, dear. He did hope that the change in the weather wasn’t a sign that he’d done the wrong thing.

The demon said he didn’t think Aziraphale could do wrong, but of course you couldn’t trust a demon about such things, or about anything, really. But he was so, well, nice about it.

There was a smell coming from the demon. He — Crawly — smelled a bit like the sword, hot metal and smoke. A bit dangerous. But far from wanting to put it away from him, Aziraphale wanted to pull it closer. There was something comforting and Earthly in the smell, something that made him wish Crawly would edge nearer to him.

The apple business couldn’t have been wrong if it was part of the Ineffable Plan, Aziraphale realised with a start. Surely God knew what would happen, as She knew everything. She might have planned for this, planned for the demon’s role in it as well as his own. Planned for the humans to have this new thing, this ‘free will’ that no demon or angel could ever have. Aziraphale wondered what that would be like. It sounded terrifying.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and the water ran into his mouth, tasting cool and green. He tried to calm his nerves. The demon was silent beside him, a steady, friendly presence. Everything seemed so much more complicated than it had been.

* * *

**Harappa, Indus Valley, 3300 BC**

Aziraphale had never even imagined this. He’d become accustomed to humans having _ideas_ by now — so many of them! such interesting things they came up with! — but this was something else again. Someone had thought of a way to _record_ the ideas, so that you didn’t have to be there to hear them. You could be in another place, and the ideas could come to you. Maybe even — he caught his breath — another time. If a human, with a fragile short human life, could record their idea, then another human, long after the first one had died, could perhaps know the idea. 

It wasn’t immortality, of course, but, well. It was something, it certainly was. And given how many fragile humans, with their fascinating and ephemeral ideas, Aziraphale had already encountered, he was more emotional than he would have expected that they’d thought this up.

‘Writing’, they were calling it.

Of course, currently they were mostly using it to record taxes and trade, but already Aziraphale had encountered an off-duty court scribe using charcoal on a piece of flat rock to write down scraps of a story he’d been telling his friends that evening. He’d had a frustrated look; when Aziraphale enquired, he discovered that the symbols the scribe knew thus far were better suited to administration than stories. But he was experimenting, and one thing Aziraphale knew for certain about humans, they were persistent.

This story might not survive as long as the tax records, but another one would, sometime soon. 

The next night, he sat peacefully by the fire in the centre of the village, listening to the scribe tell another story to his friends — humans were so good at stories — when movement in the shadows caught his eye. A child, a small, painfully skinny child, was sneaking out of the door of the scribe’s hut, with something in his hands. Aziraphale frowned and bit his lip, wondering what was going on and whether it was something he should interfere with. He preferred not to interfere too much with the humans, in general. He was never quite sure...well. 

The child had gone; but there, around the corner of the hut, came a tall figure, red-haired, almost as skinny as the child but not in the same hungry sort of way. 

“Crawly?”

They’d seen each other off and on — there simply weren’t that many humans around for them not to bump into one another — but it had been a while now. 

“Aziraphale! Fancy seeing you here.” Crawly sat down on the rock next to him. Neither the scribe nor his friends seemed particularly surprised; in fact, they barely seemed to notice him. “What are you up to, then?”

“Asoka here tells a wonderful story,” Aziraphale said. “And Crawly, it’s so lovely, they’ve started to _record_ them. Writing, they’re calling it!”

“Uh-huh,” Crawly said. “Sounds great. Not sure I see the point, exactly, but, yeah. Good stuff.”

“What about you?” Aziraphale asked politely. 

“Oh, you know, just a bit of temptation, same old same old.” Crawly shrugged. “Got to have something to report back downstairs, haven’t I?”

Aziraphale frowned at him. “That child? Is that your fault?”

“Well.” Crawly leant back a little. “Kid’s hungry, isn’t he. That bloke there, he’s got plenty of food. I just planted a little suggestion, drew the kid’s attention to it, showed him the place was empty. Nothing to it, really.”

“Stealing,” Aziraphale said. “Dear me.”

“Kid was hungry,” Crawly said. “Him over there, he’s not hungry. Don’t your lot believe in sharing good fortune, then?”

There was something wrong with that argument, Aziraphale was sure of it, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what.

The story had come to an end — bother, talking to Crawly, he’d quite missed the denouement — and Asoka had got up to go into his hut. Probably, unless Aziraphale missed his guess, to get another jug of this nice fermented grain stuff they’d invented recently too. 

“Oh, you’ll like this,” he said to Crawly. “It’s called _beer_.” 

“Yep,” Crawly agreed. “Tried it. Not bad at all. Inventive, these humans, aren’t they?”

Asoka erupted out of the hut again, swearing, with a jug in one hand. His friends looked up, concerned. 

“Here we go,” Crawly said happily. “Best bit is, as well as the whole stealing thing, _this_ one’s now experiencing Anger and Possessiveness and all sorts of things like that. Two for the price of one. Good value temptation, that.”

“The bread I left out for tomorrow!” Asoka said. “It’s gone! Someone’s come into my house and taken it!” 

There were shocked, commiserating noises from his friends, until one of them coughed, and said something very quietly. 

“You saw?” Asoka said, still sounding hot and angry. “Well why didn’t you say anything! Who is it? I’ll be after them. They’re not going to…” He stopped. His friend leant forward and said a name, very softly, too softly for Aziraphale to hear.

“Him? You’re sure?” Asoka’s face scrunched up in a complicated way. “Right. Well.”

Aziraphale could only hear snatches of the whispered conversation. Beside him, Crawly’s grin had turned into a frown.

“...doesn’t feed him…”

“...paid tomorrow…”

His friend patted him on the back, and Asoka stepped back, and shrugged. “Ah well,” he said. “So it goes, I suppose. I’d better keep a closer eye on the door another night. At least the beer’s still here, eh?”

He handed the jug to his friend, who took a swig before asking for another story. In only a few moments more, they were all sitting around the fire again.

“What the Heaven was that?” Crawly said, sounding caught between confusion and outrage.

Aziraphale could almost taste it, hanging in the air. “Forgiveness,” he said. “It’s one of ours, I believe.”

It was. But Aziraphale hadn’t thought of it as a _human_ thing, before. He’d thought of it as something She could give. Or, as the case might be — he glanced furtively sideways at Crawly — not give. That humans could forgive one another, too...well. Obviously that was all part of Her divine Plan.

“Well,” Crawly said. “All that bloody effort tempting. I dunno.” He sighed. “Hey ho.” A jug had appeared in his hand. “Fancy some of this beer, then, while we’re here?”

A swig or two couldn’t hurt, could it?

* * *

**Mesopotamia, 3004 BC**

So that was a rainbow. Aziraphale stared up at it, which made a nice change from looking at the water surrounding the Ark, or any of the humans or animals inhabiting it, all of which he’d rather had enough of by this point, if he was being honest. 

It was, he supposed, very pretty. With all the different colours and so on. With the ease of forty days of practice, he pushed down his creeping sensation of discomfort. Of course, if God had deemed them all unforgivable, then She must be right. What with the whole...ineffability.

It was a very nice rainbow. 

He wondered, not for the first time since the waters finished rising, what had happened to Crawly. Possibly he’d flown off to China or Australia or wherever, one of the places God wasn’t, apparently, quite so angry about. (Which did make Her behaviour more reasonable — not that he would ever suggest that She was not being reasonable, of course not — since obviously there _were_ humans whose behaviour was acceptable.) Crawly was an old hand on Earth, by now. He knew how to look out for himself.

Not that it was just himself that he’d looked out for. Aziraphale had noticed a few more children aboard the ship than he’d seen in the Noah family compound while they were building it. None of the humans seemed to have noticed, exactly; Aziraphale had noticed Shem’s wife looking a little confused a couple of times when dishing out lunch, but she’d shaken it off quickly enough. But Aziraphale was moderately certain that not all of Noah’s ‘grandchildren’ were, strictly speaking, actually Noah’s grandchildren.

He probably ought to disapprove. But...well. He couldn’t quite believe that Crawly was _right_ , obviously, because that would mean that something about this had to be _wrong_ , which it couldn’t be, because of Her ineffable plans and so on and so forth. But saving children. That couldn’t exactly be wrong either, could it? It was more...right. If a demon could be right. 

Maybe this demon could. 

He sighed, pulling his cloak a little more around his shoulders, and wondered how long it would be before the land appeared again. And how long it might take before Crawly came back from wherever he’d hidden himself.

* * *

**Jerusalem, 1000 BC**

Aziraphale left the palace in disbelief, shaking his head. King David had risen from humble beginnings to become a mighty leader of the people, honorable in his actions and a fierce protector of the Jews. Aziraphale’s assignment, which he had undertaken with great joy, was to communicate God’s wish that David construct and dedicate a new temple in the city.

(Aziraphale had hoped that he would receive such instructions directly from God. He’d had a feeling for some time that other angels did, but he hadn’t heard Her voice in thousands of years. She was undoubtedly just too busy to be concerned with a mere Principality and nothing was meant by it.)

He had prepared himself to appear in the King’s bedroom for a proper annunciation, when the man had flung himself into the room, his arms around a lovely woman with black curls spilling down her back, her gown falling from one shoulder. They were kissing deeply. Aziraphale felt a pang.

Then the prickle of a celestial being materialised to his right, and there was Uriel, curling her lip in disgust and handing him a fresh packet of paperwork. “Your assignment is cancelled. No need to remain in the area.”

“Cancelled? But surely —”

“That is another man’s wife.”

Aziraphale schooled his features. He didn’t like this turn of phrase. “King David is an excellent human being. A single indiscretion couldn’t disqualify him —”

“It’s a sin.” Uriel turned her disapproving stare fully upon him, and Aziraphale shrank. “He will be punished. Now, take your new orders and go.” With a glare of aethereal light, she was gone.

Aziraphale was heading for the house he had taken, to consult his new orders, pack up his belongings, and, if he was honest, have a bit of a sulk about the whole thing, when he caught the scent of spit-roasted lamb. His mouth watered. He looked up to see a small tavern where the locals were enjoying meat and beer and, from the smell of it, fresh-baked bread. Well. No harm in taking a little comfort where he could get it.

“Aziraphale!” He heard Crawly before he saw him, and spun about to see the demon, in a dark woollen shift, looking remarkably pleased with himself. “Buy you a drink!”

Crawly teetered slightly on his stool and slung his arm around Aziraphale, clearly already several sheets to the wind. His grin was a mile wide. Aziraphale didn’t think he’d seen Crawly smile like this since before the Flood. He felt his own lips twitch in response and worked to smother it.

“What are you so happy about?”

“Oh, you won’t approve. At all,” Crawly said, filling his cup. Then he raised his own and waited for Aziraphale to follow suit. “To your good opinion.” He drank.

“Give me a minute to catch up!” Aziraphale complained, and took a sip. Not bad. A touch lighter than he liked. He drained the cup in one go and tried to relax a bit under the slight weight of Crawly’s arm. The demon’s bonhomie could only mean one thing. “All right, what foul deeds bring you to Jerusalem?”

“Not much. Only tempting a hero to his doom, that’s all.” Crawly pushed a plate of olives over to Aziraphale. Aziraphale popped one into his mouth without thinking — delicious — and then had to control his reaction until he’d chewed, swallowed, and disposed of the pit.

“Not —” Aziraphale lowered his voice hurriedly. “Not King David! I should have known this was your doing!”

“It was easy. These humans, it’s incredible how many of them will simply collapse at the sight of a pretty young person bathing in a stream. ‘S what repression will do to ‘em, I suppose. All that Old Time Religion.” Crawly’s eyes crinkled fetchingly as he inclined his head meaningfully at Aziraphale. 

“You wicked old serpent. David was anointed. He was meant to erect a new temple to the Lord. I had orders to announce it and everything.” It was very unpleasant, to feel that the demon had actually thwarted him. Crawly would probably get a public recognition at his next all-hands, while Aziraphale might even receive a dressing down, or at least remarks at his annual review about back-talking archangels.

“He’s erecting something, all right,” Crawly leered, sliding over the basket of bread.

“There’s no need to be crude,” Aziraphale sniffed, and bit into the bread. It had a remarkably soft texture and a surprisingly crisp crust. Still warm from the oven. 

“You’re just cross because you didn’t get there first, and I’ll be the one getting the commendation.”

“That’s not true at all! David is a great man, a great leader, wise and kind. It will be a tragedy if he fails, and a greater one if his soul is lost.” Aziraphale put down his cup and his bread and wrung his hands. The irritation bled out of him and he felt all the weight of his responsibility, and his failure.

Crawly poked out his lower lip and, to Aziraphale’s regret, withdrew his arm from where it had been resting along Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Now, don’t look at it like that. David’s still a young man, after all. He’ll soon be bored with Bathsheba, his type always go off the pretty ones after a while. And then your side can…” he waved his hands expressively, “do your thing.”

“Do our — oh, yes, I see.” Aziraphale licked his lip, tasting yeast. David could atone for his sin. Be forgiven. Having sex with the wrong person — Aziraphale couldn’t see what all the fuss was about, really. It wasn’t the kind of thing that would threaten David’s country, his people, all the many good things he had done and, Aziraphale hoped, would do. If it was God’s plan.

Aziraphale’s new orders were fairly urgent, but he could return to Jerusalem to provide the king with some holy influence. He could suggest to David that he ask God (and perhaps Bathsheba’s husband?) to forgive him. David would take responsibility for his actions. He would swear to live a blameless life evermore. He would be restored, the noble and virtuous hero that he was meant to be.

Crawly was gazing at him in a fond way. Aziraphale smiled at him tentatively and reached for his cup, and Crawly refilled it. “Enough about work! Tell me what you’ve been up to. Read any good books lately?”

It turned out to be rather a lovely evening.

* * *

**Golgotha, 33 AD**

Aziraphale remained at Golgotha through the whole night and the next day, until the young carpenter lost consciousness. Crowley waited with him, looking more and more troubled the whole time. They didn’t speak much.

Aziraphale had been assigned to witness this event, a strange piece of work with no blessing or healing or any typical angelic business attached to it. He didn’t know why he was there. He didn’t know why Crowley was there, either.

At sunset on the second day, Crowley swayed a little on her feet and muttered, “Come on.” She trudged off down the hill with a determined air. Aziraphale followed her, once again not knowing why.

“Where are we going?” Aziraphale asked, trying to keep up. A pebble lodged in his sandal and he stopped to pull it out, but then Crowley was far ahead of him and he tried to run and shake the pebble loose at the same time.

Crowley didn’t answer, but led him further away from the city wall. Probably wise. It wouldn’t do for a seemingly unmarried, seeming man and woman to be seen together at night. Which also reminded him — he did a quick scan for any representatives of his department and found none. He caught up to Crowley, who had found a small grassy area away from the road, with a few scrubby bushes for cover, and seated herself. She pulled at her veil.

Aziraphale sat down next to her. In the light of the waxing moon, she looked almost as upset as she had done at the Flood. 

“He asked God to forgive them,” Crowley said bitterly, wringing the thin black fabric in her elegant hands. “The people who were driving nails into his wrists. They didn’t know what they were doing, he said.” Her golden eyes flicked over to Aziraphale. “Oh, they knew, all right.”

“Maybe they did,” Aziraphale admitted. He wasn’t an expert in this sort of thing. A demon would know more about what motivated a human to such grisly abuses. “But God can forgive them just the same.”

Crowley’s mouth dropped open for a moment. She studied Aziraphale incredulously. “Why should She? Why shouldn’t they go to Hell with the other torturers?”

Now it was Aziraphale who was amazed. Surely Crowley couldn’t have forgotten everything she learned when she was made. “God can forgive anyone, Crowley. There’s no one who is beyond mercy.” 

Crowley’s chest heaved for a moment. Aziraphale watched her face tighten with pain, then gradually soften as she regarded him with a frank stare. “What a beautiful thing to believe.”

Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably, tugging at his tunic. He hadn’t actually heard a peep from God since their brief conversation about the sword, and he’d had certain...concerns about their relationship since well before then. Not that it would do to look at them too deeply. 

“But it’s true!” He lifted his eyes back to Crowley’s face and was struck by how open it was, how unguarded her expressions always were. How very unlike a demon, he reflected.

“True for them, maybe.” 

Oh. Oh, how thoughtless of him. Crowley’s golden gaze still held his, and her mouth twisted a little, sardonic, as he felt his own expression shift. 

“True for everyone,” he said, stubborn, but he knew both of them could hear the doubt in his voice. He looked away again, down at the ground. Crowley’s knee was next to his, a couple of finger-breadths away. 

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Crowley said, and her voice was gentle now, too. “That stuff’s for them, isn’t it? Doesn’t matter.” She sighed. “Wish I’d brought something to drink.”

For a moment, Aziraphale considered suggesting they return to the city, but he didn’t want to leave where they were; and all the reasons for them not to be seen together by the humans or by either of their own sides still applied. 

“Gloomy business,” Crowley said. “Let’s talk about something else. What’ve you been up to, then, the last century or two?”

They traded stories for a while. Light-hearted stories; deliberately. Aziraphale found himself telling Crowley about all his favourite culinary discoveries. Crowley seemed entertained, although professed herself not particularly interested on a personal level. 

“Maybe I’ll convince you otherwise, sometime,” Aziraphale said, feeling daring. 

“You asking me out to dinner?” Crowley said. “Well. Perhaps another time.” She yawned, snake-wide. 

“Sleepy?” Aziraphale asked, surprised. They didn’t have to sleep. He never had, himself.

Crowley shrugged. “Got into the habit of it. You should try it. Quite nice...not to think, for a while. Dreams can be weird, though, I’ll warn you.” 

Aziraphale shook his head. “I don’t fancy it. But, if you do…” He gestured, unsure exactly what he was saying. “I mean. Feel free. I’ll keep an eye out for any problems.”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ll watch over me while I sleep.”

Aziraphale shrugged, trying not to feel uncomfortable. He had a strange warm feeling, being here with Crowley. He didn’t want to lose that, not just yet. If Crowley wanted to sleep, then Aziraphale would rather stay there while she did. “I suppose it isn’t very comfortable.”

“Eh, no worse than other places I’ve slept.” Crowley, still looking at him a little strangely, gestured and miracled up a rough woollen blanket. “If you’re sure, angel. I mean, I’ll be fine by myself, anyway.” She yawned again, her body slumping. “I do rather need it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of leaving you,” Aziraphale said staunchly, and was immediately alarmed by how true that felt — and the fact that he’d said it aloud. Anyone could have heard! 

Crowley curled up next to him, under the blanket; and was asleep almost immediately. It had been a couple of days, Aziraphale supposed, if you had the sort of body that liked to sleep. He stared down at Crowley’s red curls, and his hands strayed towards them almost without his volition. They were soft under his fingers. 

Warmth bloomed gently in Aziraphale’s chest. He was familiar with the sensation, of course — it was as essential to him as goodness, as light — but he had never felt it quite this way before. Where it had always felt general, this was specific. It ached. He stroked Crowley’s hair, watched the lines of her face relax, the fine bones of her nose and cheeks picked out in the starlight. He took a deep breath and focused on the sensation of the soft strands under his fingertips, the shape of her body with all the strain gone out of it. 

He wondered what she was like when she was an angel. He didn’t know her then, before her Fall reshaped her. He couldn’t imagine Crowley without her sharp edges, without her bitterness. Aziraphale’s throat felt raw in the dry air. He was glad to be here looking after her now.

It was many hours before Aziraphale realised that he should be afraid. They were out in the open; what if someone were to see? What if there were other angels about — or worse, demons? They mustn’t be discovered like this, with Crowley so vulnerable. They mustn’t be discovered together. 

The moon was still high; plenty of time for them to get away unseen. He must wake her. Aziraphale turned back to see Crowley’s lips gently parted, curls disturbed under his careless, careful fingers. This was not the first time, Aziraphale realised, that he had thought that Crowley was beautiful. But it was more than a passing thought, now; more than an acknowledgement of the tools in the demonic arsenal.

Aziraphale cupped Crowley’s shoulder. “Crowley. Wake up, dear.” He’d called her ‘dear’. Well, no going back now. Crowley’s eyes were open.

“Already?”

“You’ve slept about four hours. But it’s almost a full moon tonight, and I’m worried we may be seen.”

Crowley yawned. “You worry too much.”

This was probably true, but it wasn’t as if he could stop it. “I think we should — go our separate ways, for now. I’ve a feeling…” He did. He certainly wasn’t going to talk about it. “I’ve a feeling that’s best.”

“You and your feelings.” Crowley sat up, stretched, adjusted her veil. Aziraphale jerked his eyes away from her lithe limbs, the delicate knobby bones of her wrists. He stood and dusted himself off. Turned, and offered her a hand up.

A few expressions played across her face that Aziraphale couldn’t quite read in the moonlight, but she accepted his hand and he helped her to her feet. Her palm was dry and sleep-warm in the cool air. Aziraphale kept hold of it even as Crowley began to turn away, and she looked back at him, startled. 

Aziraphale’s heart beat fast as he raised her hand to his lips, kissed the backs of her fingers. Caught the scent of her, hot metal and smoke, desert flowers. He closed his eyes, sucking that scent into the back of his palate, memorizing it.

He looked up as he released her hand, meaning to say something kind, perhaps even dashing. Crowley’s mouth had dropped open, her eyes tracking back and forth across his face for an instant, two. Then she turned and walked away, wrapping her veil tightly around her.

“See you around, angel,” she called over her shoulder.

_Angel_ , he thought. _Well, what else would I be?_

* * *

**Rome, 41 AD**

_What a beautiful thing to believe._ For the next eight years, as he made his way around the Empire, Aziraphale couldn’t forget the look on Crowley’s face when she said it, couldn’t forget his own feelings as he watched over her that night in Golgotha. He worried over them. He prayed over them. They hadn’t gone away.

The assignments he was given these days seemed increasingly insignificant, and yet he couldn’t help but feel that great things were afoot all around him. The humans were endlessly creative, new religions, new arts, new cuisines — and endlessly destructive. Aziraphale had no doubt Crowley and her kind were sowing some of the discord.

God’s capacity for forgiveness was infinite. Aziraphale was certain of that, even though the Fallen were Fallen. Demons had rejected God’s love and with it God’s mercy, and so consigned themselves to Hell. They were to be pitied, not hated.

A stab of guilt pierced Aziraphale’s chest. Crowley wouldn’t want his pity. She would loathe it. And anyway, he told himself, pity wasn’t precisely what he felt. Aziraphale felt sympathy. Compassion. Crowley deserved it, as Crowley herself obviously felt compassion for humans who suffered -- not like a demon at all, Aziraphale thought.

What if — what if Crowley weren’t a demon?

_Don’t be ridiculous, of course I’m a demon_ , said the Crowley in his mind. And she was, of course she was. But what if she didn’t have to be?

The idea wasn’t ridiculous at all. God’s capacity for forgiveness was infinite. If Crowley were sufficiently contrite (never mind that Aziraphale had never in four thousand years seen Crowley be contrite about anything), if Crowley asked God for forgiveness...might God not then return Crowley to the Heavenly Host?

Aziraphale’s chest went tight and heavy at the thought. Oh, how wonderful! A demon restored to grace! Crowley, safe in the light! Aziraphale clenched his hands together and prayed fervently.

It wasn’t until he actually bumped into Crowley again that he realised that an idea, no matter how glorious, is not in fact a plan.

“Still a demon, then?” Aziraphale asked, in some disappointment but not without hope.

Crowley looked at him like he’d taken leave of his senses, cracked wise about aardvarks, and generally seemed in a very ill humour. Aziraphale set his hopes to one side and invited him out to dinner.

It appeared that Crowley did not like oysters. Aziraphale, well past tipsy, was only too happy to eat his share. However, Crowley did seem to be enjoying the wine, and the debauchery of various kinds taking place all around them. They lay on couches next to one another, taking shellfish and other tidbits from conveniently placed trays. Dancing boys and girls came in and out, naked and oiled and decorated with paint and jewellery. Couples and trios fondled one another — and more — in dark corners.

Aziraphale, appreciating the succulence of Petronius’ vinegar sauce on a particularly fat, creamy oyster, reflected that if he had known it was this kind of place he might not have invited Crowley here. On the other hand, the wine was very, very good. And Crowley’s mood seemed to be lifting.

“Now this is more like it,” Crowley said, lifting his goblet in a toast. “Salutaria!”

“I — I can’t stop thinking about you,” Aziraphale blurted out, and for a moment Crowley’s smile grew brighter. 

Then he took a ragged breath and said, low, “Thought it was just me.”

This notion pierced Aziraphale’s inebriated heart to the quick. That Crowley could care for him and think his feelings — he hiccuped — unreturned! “It isn’t, my dear, I assure you.”

Crowley’s mouth fell open. Then he slithered closer to Aziraphale, until Aziraphale could feel the heat of him, smell the hot metal and smoke of him. And the human aroma of his skin, and the sour bite of wine on his breath. In a moment, Crowley was pressed against Aziraphale, his back to Aziraphale’s chest. Their legs tangled. Aziraphale’s arm flailed a bit, looking for somewhere to be that wasn’t on Crowley.

“We mustn’t —”

“Look around you. We’re just blending in.” Crowley nodded at an adjacent couch, where a man was kissing his friend with one hand disappearing under his toga. The friend writhed.

Aziraphale felt himself flush far beyond what his drunkenness could account for. His skin felt florid, tingling; his clothing suddenly coarse and heavy against it. His hand fell against Crowley’s side, then across his chest. He could feel Crowley’s heart beating, fast; feel his breathing speed up as he drew his hand in a gentle circle over Crowley’s sternum. He remembered himself, stopped moving.

“It’s not them’m worried about.” Aziraphale swallowed nervously, trying to sense for aethereal interference. His power was always a bit dull after this much drink.

Crowley leant to speak into his ear. The touch of his breath there sent a shiver all the way down Aziraphale’s body. “No one’s watching. I checked.”

“How c’n you be sure?” Aziraphale said faintly, nuzzling at Crowley’s neck. Oh, goodness, Crowley smelled wonderful. He felt wonderful. The love unwound slowly through Aziraphale like a flower blooming, but the whole thing was complicated by the heaviness in his limbs, the urgent twitch of his skin, and now the tingling heat of his cock coming to life against Crowley’s hip.

“Demon. Learned to look after m’self.” Crowley’s lips brushed Aziraphale’s jaw, so lightly, and then landed on his mouth. It was the gentlest of kisses, for all they were heated and soused. Crowley’s lips were parted, but dry and soft on his, and it was Aziraphale who deepened the kiss, seeking Crowley’s tongue. Crowley made a low noise in his throat, and Aziraphale suddenly wanted to do nothing else but this for the next century. 

Aziraphale’s heart seemed to expand, encompassing the whole breadth of him as he tasted Crowley’s tongue. And then Crowley turned in his arms, pressing chest to chest and throwing himself into another kiss, a hand in Aziraphale’s hair. Aziraphale felt his heart grow to embrace them both, as if he could wrap them into a safe, secure bubble of love. Let Rome burn around them.

He was abandoned. He was amazed. He was probably very drunk. Crowley might have been even drunker. A hot hand slid from his hip down to his thigh. Aziraphale nudged Crowley with his nose. He noticed he’d knocked Crowley’s laurels askew, and the smoked glasses were all smudgy.

“My dear, this is —” It was lovely, Crowley was lovely, and Aziraphale wanted to say so. Crowley should know how he felt. He teetered on the edge of letting the word come out...but it was simply too dangerous. They were an angel, and a demon. “We really can’t.” 

Crowley pulled away, putting a foot of space between their faces, and Aziraphale was instantly awash with loss and regret. “Why can’t we?”

Aziraphale’s mouth was dry. He heard the cries of the young man on the couch across the room as he came to climax in his lover’s hands, and clamped his teeth against bitterness. If only they were men, this would be so simple. If only they were from the same world. On the same side.

“You know why. Look — let’s. I’m. Let’s go for a walk.”

“Angel, I dunno about you, but I c’n barely stand.” And true to his demonic nature, Crowley reached for his cup of wine and took a swallow. 

“Sober up then,” Aziraphale whispered, adjusting his toga and preparing to do so himself.

Crowley pursed his lips. “Don’t wanna.” Aziraphale sat up, removing most of the wine from his system with some effort. He was surprised to discover that the warm bloom of his love for Crowley was as expansive as ever, not affected at all by his sobriety, if perhaps a bit less fuzzy around the edges. His erection was, thankfully, waning, although if Crowley remained sprawled across the couch with his toga rucked up over his thighs like that...he jerked his eyes away and stood up to leave.

“Oh, aaalll riiiight,” Crowley said, sounding very put out. A moment later, he was on the crowded street with Aziraphale, none the worse for wear. Aziraphale led them off along a quiet side street that opened out to the river. Crowley chucked a stone into it.

“What’s got you in such a strop this evening?”

Crowley sighed and scratched his head, poked out his lower lip. “Been round the imperial palace for the past three days. Meant to be sowing discord, inspiring sin, ruining lives, the usual. Caligula needs me like he needs another orifice.”

Aziraphale frowned. “I had heard stories. I didn’t realise it was as bad as all that.”

“Worse. Today, he —” Crowley stopped walking. Aziraphale glimpsed the stricken look on his face, his brow crumpled, his mouth stretched and gaping, before he covered it with his hands.

Aziraphale put his hand on Crowley’s shoulder, felt the muscles and tendons there like ropes, hard and stretched. He wished his aethereal miracles could heal a demon. “It’s all right. You can tell me.”

Crowley seemed to recover himself. He righted his glasses, shrugged off Aziraphale’s hand. “You’ll hear about it soon enough. Before morning, probably. Honestly, Aziraphale, if there were ever anyone destined for Hell, it’s the Little Boot.”

Aziraphale’s heart ached to hear the bitterness in his voice. “No one is _destined_ for Hell, Crowley. People make their own destiny, you know that. They make choices, and just as they can choose to do evil, they can choose to do good. They can choose to put evil behind them and devote themselves to benevolence.”

“Listen, angel, even if Caligula spent every day of his life helping little old ladies across the street, there’s no way —”

“Everyone is forgivable, Crowley. Everyone can come back to God.”

Crowley’s mouth snapped shut at that, and the muscles worked in his jaw. Oh, dear. Perhaps he’d gone too far. Crowley was greatly disturbed by what he had seen today; Aziraphale shouldn’t have pressed his advantage. But they had been so close this evening, they had held one another and it had felt so right! And Aziraphale loved him. If only —

“That’s why you asked if I was still a demon.” Crowley’s voice was thin and bitter.

“I — I only thought —”

“Well, don’t.” Crowley turned away from him and began walking back in the direction they’d come.

“Crowley, wait!” Aziraphale hurried after him, a stabbing sensation in his throat. “Please.” Crowley kept walking but Aziraphale caught him up. He didn’t risk touching him, though he ached to. “It’s only that I love you, you see.”

Something eased a little in the set of Crowley’s shoulders. He didn’t look at Aziraphale, but his voice was softer as he said, “If you love me, angel, you’ll leave it alone.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She had given humans free will, and part of that had to be that they should be given the opportunity to exercise it. To choose what was right. But more importantly, this new Arrangement meant that Crowley was doing blessings, and if Crowley was doing blessings -- performing Good in the world -- then Crowley was, surely, becoming more forgivable.

**Oviedo, Spain, 787AD**

Aziraphale made her way to market, basket on her arm. The convent’s garden, and the hard labour of the sisters there, normally supplied their modest wants, but it had been an unusually cold and dry winter, and the peas and greens were only just beginning to sprout. It had taken some negotiation for Mother Maryam to allow Aziraphale to assist the convent in this way, since she’d already been scolded for the sin of gluttony. Vows of poverty were all very well, but Aziraphale couldn’t bear to think of another meal of bread and cabbage. She hoped the market would have the season’s first tiny artichokes—the convent still had a little olive oil to fry them with. And perhaps she had enough in her purse for a small leg of ham. Aziraphale thought how Sister Sara and Sister Tamu would delight over such a treat. They worked so hard, the poor dears. 

She came round a corner and her senses were instantly alert to an occult tingle she hadn’t felt in centuries. Her heart leapt. It had been so long. She scoured the street for a glimpse of red hair and found Crowley, walking toward her, a smile lifting the corner of her mouth.

Crowley was so beautiful that Aziraphale almost fell to her knees in the street. But they were conspicuous enough as it was, a Catholic nun in her homespun habit, and what appeared to be a great lady in a cobalt and carmine silk gown. Crowley’s curls were piled elaborately on top of her head, drawing attention both to her elegant high forehead and her long neck. A silver serpent ornament crowned her hair, and of course the regrettable smoked lenses covered her eyes.

“Looking good, angel,” Crowley murmured to Aziraphale’s gobsmacked stare, and Aziraphale could hear the warmth in it.

“You are breathtaking, my dear,” she said, making a deep bow. Oh, how she’d missed her. “What business do you have in Iberia?”

“Hanging out with King Alfonso the Chaste. Turns out he’s not.” Crowley dipped her head to take in Aziraphale’s ensemble, amusement playing across her features in a way that was both attractive and faintly annoying. “Don’t have to ask what you’ve been doing.”

“This is quite recent, actually,” Aziraphale huffed. “I only left Rome a few years ago.”

“Keen to try the local delicacies?” Crowley asked, eyeing her basket all too shrewdly. Wily old serpent.

“Special assignment, unfortunately. It’s been terribly dull, I don’t mind telling you.” A follower of St. Scholastica had founded an order here in Spain and Aziraphale had been sent to bless the sisterhood. The religious and political situation had become unstable, but the sisters had been welcoming and kind, and the convent safe and comfortable, and she hadn’t quite got around to leaving.

“Didn’t you bring your books with you?”

“As many as I could carry. But I can only be seen reading the Bible and a few other approved religious texts, you know.”

“Ugh. Dead boring. Alfonso’s more fun when he’s wrangling with Charlemagne, but there’s been nothing of interest lately. I’ve been thinking of trying to get into the Moorish court. You should join me, I hear the food’s terrific. And they’re inventing new languages and all sorts. Much more your speed.”

Crowley was walking alongside her now, as she continued towards the market. Aziraphale looked around to see if anyone was taking notice, but nuns were essentially invisible. Crowley was glamorous and was certainly attracting attention, but Aziraphale’s presence at her side would not, from the human point of view, be a thing of moment.

Crowley laid her hand on Aziraphale’s arm. It was warm and gentle through Aziraphale’s thin woolen sleeve. Aziraphale remembered the last time she’d felt Crowley’s hands on her, in Petronius’ restaurant, embracing on a couch. Kissing. She could still feel the glow of it, had kept the ember of that memory lit for hundreds of years, never certain if she would still have the strength to push Crowley away, should it happen again. Aziraphale began to pull back, then hesitated. 

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. No one’s watching. Haven’t smelt a hint of brimstone for years and years.”

“You’re always so sure of yourself,” Aziraphale said wonderingly, looking up at Crowley’s regal profile. It had been so very long. She had forgotten Crowley’s confidence, her swagger, the way she laid so many of Aziraphale’s own worries to rest—while stirring up so many others.

The fingers tightened around Aziraphale’s forearm in a brief squeeze. “Why not? Why let a little thing like eternal damnation spoil a beautiful spring day? Now, take me shopping.”

As Aziraphale selected the first spring onions and peas and asparagus, among more prosaic groceries, Crowley filled her in on her work over the past several centuries. It appeared there had been a great deal of overlap in their assignments, especially over the past few decades. Her heart panged. She could have seen Crowley so many times, if only she’d known. What a waste.

“I am—very sorry to have missed you, my dear,” she said.

Crowley looked up from the barrel of oranges she had been idly sorting through. The sun blazed off her glasses and her smile was a bit pained. “You too, angel.”

Aziraphale took her hand. “May I buy you an orange?”

“I’d rather have a kiss.”

The ember in Aziraphale’s chest flared to life at the thought. “We can’t—”

“Obviously.” Crowley pressed her hand, then let go of it. “Can I walk you home? Lady Antonia has need of spiritual counsel and meditative retreat.”

Aziraphale’s stomach flipped. “Oh, but surely, consecrated ground!” But she was already leading Crowley away from the market. 

“Not the whole convent, is it?”

Of course it wasn’t. Perhaps they could spend a little more time together, safely—maybe even risk another kiss. How she'd dreamed of it. The full basket was light on Aziraphale’s arm, the warmth of spring bursting in her chest, as she led Crowley down the path to the modest structure attached to the monastery. “Now just let me put these goods in the kitchen—”

“Let me take them.” And before she knew it, Crowley was knocking on the kitchen door, basket over her delicate arm. There was no answer. “Hello?”

Aziraphale opened the door. The kitchen was deserted. “Sister Sara? Sister Tamu?” Crowley followed her, stepping gingerly at first, putting the basket on the table. The fire was low, recently tended by the look of it, but nothing was yet prepared for the midday meal. A few sad looking potatoes were on the chopping block by a discarded paring knife. “That’s odd.” Suddenly she wheeled about to face Crowley. “Did you—”

Crowley’s hands were on her face and Crowley’s mouth was pressed against hers and the kitchen, the convent, the whole planet whirled around Aziraphale. Her heart fluttered and she clutched Crowley’s shoulders, feeling the tension there as Crowley’s tongue dipped between her lips and stroked her own.

A noise escaped Aziraphale’s throat, and before she knew what she was about, she was returning the kiss, opening wider to taste Crowley, gliding over her slick warm tongue, inhaling her unmistakable scent. The golden bloom of emotion expanded in Aziraphale’s chest as it had done centuries before, the ache that belonged only to Crowley. Only this time, Aziraphale felt an answering ache coming from Crowley herself.

“Seven hundred years since I touched you last,” Crowley murmured into her throat, sending shivers up into her scalp where Crowley’s long fingers were removing her habit and unpinning her hair. “Too blessed long.”

Aziraphale slid a hand down Crowley’s spine to press them closer together, to feel the softness of Crowley’s bosom and the heat of her body. Her heart was going like mad. “I love you,” she whispered into Crowley’s ear. “Oh, but what if—”

“No demons hanging around a convent, angel,” Crowley said, pulling away to remove her dark glasses. “It’s your lot we’d have to worry about. Is it safe?”

It was a challenge to collect herself long enough to perform the necessary scan, loose-limbed and scatterbrained as she felt, hot all over and swelling between her legs. “No one.” She leaned in for another kiss, then drew back. “What have you done with the sisters?”

Crowley smiled deliciously, a slow wicked smirk Aziraphale wanted very much to lick off her face. “Nothing bad, promise. They’re having it off in the barn. Same as us, really.”

“Crowley! Tempting nuns to lust!”

“You know how it works, angel,” Crowley said, cradling Aziraphale’s face in one hand and stroking her lower lip with her thumb. “We just look at what’s already there and show them a few...options.”

The golden eyes were knowing, insinuating, demonic. Loving. And right. How many times had Aziraphale felt love between Sister Sara and Sister Tamu? Or for that matter heard any number of the sisters exploring themselves in their beds after vespers?

There was nothing at all wrong with love, Aziraphale thought. She licked Crowley’s thumb and watched her mouth fall open slightly. Then she sucked it into her mouth and had the pleasure of tasting her and watching her expression crumple in pleasure. Wetness gushed out of her.

Crowley backed her against the table then, kissing her cheekbone, her throat, her ear, and her mouth—oh, Crowley kissing her mouth, lapping gently at her lips and then opening her up, licking inside with that agile tongue. Aziraphale moaned, clutching at Crowley, then, in anxiety, pressing her palms against her chest, thinking to push her away but gasping instead at the sweet soft rise of Crowley’s breasts under her hands. “Perhaps we shouldn’t,” Aziraphale mumbled into Crowley’s neck, still kissing her, stroking in wonder at the delicate swell of her bosom. She scanned again, in anxiety. No celestial presence, other than her own. Passion radiating from the barn.

Crowley backed away and Aziraphale was instantly hungry for her. “Whatever you say, angel.” Her eyes were wide and gold, her lips ruddy and swollen, her nipples showing through the heavy blue silk of her gown, rising and falling with her accelerated breath. She swayed slightly.

Aziraphale couldn’t stand it. She reached out with a trembling hand and unfastened the draping at Crowley’s shoulder, letting her overdress drop away, revealing a broad expanse of pale, freckled throat and collarbones. Her mouth watered. Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s naked shoulders, the delicate skin hot under her hands, and tried to work out how her complicated robes fastened. She wanted more. She wanted everything.

Abruptly she found herself hoisted on top of the convent’s kitchen table, legs askew, skirts hiked up, and the basket knocked over. Baby artichokes rolled and bounced to the floor. “This is better than stomping about in tin cans, innit?” Crowley said, sliding a hot hand up her calf.

“Oh! My dear! People eat off this table!”

Crowley looked up from between Aziraphale’s legs, where she was maddeningly tonguing one ankle. “So will I,” she glinted.

Aziraphale could not quite believe what was about to happen, and yet she could not wait for it. She tried to feel scandalised and failed. She settled for pretending to be scandalised. “You vile creature.” 

“You love me.” Crowley kissed wetly into the back of her knee, sending delicious sensations up her thigh.

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, “And you love me.”

Crowley lifted her head to regard her solemnly. “Yeah.”

“Oh, my dear.” Of course it was impossible. Their head offices might always be there, watching. “What will we do?”

“Already told you once. Send messages about our assignments. Set up regular meetings. Whenever we’ve a blessing or a temptation in the same place, we arrange for one of us to do the work.” Crowley bent her head and began nibbling gently at Aziraphale’s inner thigh. Her hot breath and tender lips made Aziraphale’s entire body melt into the table. “Get together afterward to compare notes, have a bit of fun…” The slightest prick of teeth, and then Crowley’s tongue, where Aziraphale’s thigh met her body. She could feel Crowley panting against her.

“Please stop talking about work.”

Crowley chuckled, and then Aziraphale felt her tongue exactly where she wanted it, and gasped in shocked delight. She had explored herself, of course, the tiny flaming memory of Crowley’s kisses bringing life to every sensation of mind and body, but she had only been in this form for a short time. She had had no idea what it was capable of.

Crowley moaned against her, moving her tongue slowly and gently, and Aziraphale whined, gyrating her hips as she tried to get used to a sensation which was almost oppressive in its beauty and perfection. She had thought she understood what desire was, and she had imagined it—imagined this very act, with Crowley—but no previous earthly pleasure had prepared her for this: the wet slither of Crowley’s tongue as it moved more urgently against her yearning flesh, the heat of her body as it strove and writhed toward completion, and the glow of love that surrounded them both.

And then Crowley slid her finger inside her, joining the deep ache inside to the precise point of pleasure where Crowley’s tongue flickered relentlessly. 

“Oh, my God!” Aziraphale cried out, and then threw her arm across her face, biting into the meat of her wrist to stifle her cries. She clutched at Crowley’s finger and thrust her hips, grinding desperately into Crowley, who increased her pace and intensity, growling at the back of her throat. Hardly knowing she was doing it, Aziraphale reached with her other hand to grope at Crowley’s shoulder, her head, clutching at her hair and flooding with need.

The exquisite slither of Crowley landed suddenly in the most sublime spot, and Aziraphale couldn’t stop herself from moaning “Yes, yes, there,” clenching her fingers around the elaborate twists of Crowley’s red curls. Crowley made a broken sound against her and worked her hand more furiously, her tongue running over that perfect place again and again until Aziraphale seized in thunderous pleasure, biting her cries into her own arm. Crowley went on, and so Aziraphale went on, wave after wave, in shock finding herself cresting again a few moments later when Crowley, with a wicked chuckle that vibrated deliciously through her, slid another finger inside.

Her thighs still shivering, Aziraphale pushed Crowley’s head away. It would not do to be discovered. She was very comfortable in the convent and being forced to leave it in a hurry would be inconvenient—and might draw unwanted attention to them both. 

And yet, in this moment, she could not feel anxious. Warm, somewhat sticky, still throbbing. Happy. “Come up here and let me kiss you.”

“‘M a mess,” Crowley warned.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’ve tasted myself any number of times. Get up here.”

Crowley didn’t go so far as to climb onto the table. Instead, she carefully pulled up Aziraphale’s drawers and tidied her skirts, then helped her to sit up. Then she offered her juicy mouth to be kissed, and Aziraphale indulged herself thoroughly. She ran a hand down Crowley’s elegant body to cup her between the legs. Crowley made a little bitten-off noise and covered her hand. “Better not. Your friends will be back any time.”

Aziraphale frowned. “That hardly seems fair.”

“That’s how our Arrangement works, right?” Aziraphale could hear the capital “A”. “I do you this time, you owe me one.”

Oh, the snake, entwining their love around this business contract! “I’m not sure I’ve agreed to any Arrangement.”

Crowley kissed her cheek. “You don’t want to wait another seven hundred years, do you?”

Aziraphale didn’t, that was the trouble. And putting other considerations aside, there was something delightful, something hopeful, even, about the idea of Crowley doing blessings and holy miracles. Perhaps if she did enough of them—

“Oh, very well. We’ll work out the details later. Write to me here, would you? We’ll—Arrange—to meet again soon and, er, hammer it out?”

Crowley threw back her head and laughed. “Angel! Never thought you had it in you!”

The voices of Sister Tamu and Sister Sara carried over from the barn, and Crowley’s expression sobered at once. She righted her robes, covered her eyes, and, with a final press of Aziraphale’s hand, slipped away.

* * *

**South Gyras [now Cambridgeshire], 800AD**

“I did that blessing,” Crowley observed, leaning back against the timber walls of the inn. A few strands of his hair caught against a splintered patch. Outside, Aziraphale could hear the gentle rush of the river, and over it, the ferryman shouting at someone. Again. Both of them had a tankard of ale in front of them; the brewer here was really rather decent. The Fens were admittedly a good place to grow meadowsweet—that was to say, they were damp—which wasn’t quite as good in ale as honey was, but made a highly palatable second-best.

“I know you did,” Aziraphale said. “Very nicely, too.”

Crowley grimaced. “No need to go shouting about it, angel.” He took a slug out of his tankard and looked away. 

“Well, wasn’t that the whole point of this?” Aziraphale asked. “Share the workload? It wouldn’t work if we couldn’t _do_ it.”

“Right. So. Your turn, then.”

Aziraphale fiddled with the handle of his tankard. “Yes. I suppose so.”

They’d made a bargain, after all, and it would hardly be very angelic to renege on that. Morally speaking, he was—had to be—an angel of his word. Crowley had done his part. Now it was Aziraphale’s turn. The idea of tempting someone did seem a bit...unangelic; but Crowley’s logic was surely sound enough. It didn’t matter who did it, if it was going to be done anyway. Did it? 

“They’re quite similar, you know. I’m sure you’ll manage fine,” Crowley said, catching Aziraphale’s eye again. He was evidently attempting to be reassuring. Under the table, his knee nudged into Aziraphale’s leg, which was both comforting and more than a little distracting.

Aziraphale forced himself to concentrate on the matter at hand, rather than on thinking about running his hand up Crowley’s inner thigh. “Similar? But surely…”

“I’ve done both, right? I ought to know. Go ahead and try it and see if you want to contradict me. It’s all about choices. Blessing someone isn’t about _making_ them do something. You can’t make them be good, any more than I can make them be bad. It’s a temptation, that’s the whole point. You offer them the choice. Encourage them along a bit.”

“I suppose so,” Aziraphale said, a little doubtfully. “I mean, if they don’t _have_ to…”

“Anyway,” Crowley said. “Pretty sure you’ll like this one. You saw that ferryman out there?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Yes. Nasty loud fellow.” 

“He’s going to knock off work in a bit and come in here for a beer. Your job is to tempt him into joining in the dice game with those over there. Couple of years time and he’ll have bankrupted himself.”

“That doesn’t sound very…”

“Which,” Crowley held up a finger, “will mean he can’t marry the landlord’s daughter, because the landlord won’t have it any more. And the landlord’s daughter can’t bear him.”

“I can’t blame her at all,” Aziraphale said. “Sensible young lady. I can’t imagine he’d be a good husband.”

“Well then,” Crowley said, spreading his hands. “He deserves it, she’ll get out of a nasty future, job’s a good ‘un. What’s not to like?”

“And I did promise,” Aziraphale said.

“You did,” Crowley agreed. “So, like I say. You just kind of...encourage him along a bit. Show him how much fun they’re having. Remind him he’s had a good day, jingling plenty of coin in his pocket, that sort of thing.” He pursed his lips. “Maybe encourage him to a beer or two first. That shouldn’t be hard for you.”

“Right,” Aziraphale said, with determination, choosing to ignore Crowley’s clear and wholly unfair implication about his own drinking habits.

The door opened, and the ferryman came in. He really was a bad-tempered, nasty man, Aziraphale had observed that on the way in. Right now, however, he looked surprisingly cheerful, probably because of the coin that Aziraphale could tell, now Crowley had pointed it out, was in his pocket. Well then. 

He got himself a mug of ale, and turned, evidently considering where to sit. Crowley coughed a little stagily, but Aziraphale had already realised—if the man once settled himself away from the dice game, it would be far harder to move him towards it. Fortunately there was a whole bench free next to the men playing dice. But how…? Well. Crowley seemed to think that he should be able to do this, didn’t he? And there was a whole class of blessings that were primarily about nudging people in the right direction. Directing the attention towards a particular path, mental or physical; making it shine just a little in the mind. Making it _appeal_. So...in this case, perhaps it would suffice just to show him all the space over there, to lay a gentle mental glow over the idea of sitting just there… 

“That’s it,” Crowley said approvingly. “Little nudge at a time.” He pursed his lips in a professionally appraising manner. “Hardly going to take anything, this one, I reckon.” 

Shouldn’t this have felt a little different from a blessing, when the idea he was, as it were, polishing up, was a positive one, a righteous path? But then again, as yet, this wasn’t really any sort of temptation at all. Sitting here, sitting there, that could have no moral value in either direction. Even if one choice might be slightly more likely to lead to moral error. There was something uncomfortable about that idea, now he came to think about it, but...

Never mind. He’d promised Crowley. The dice players were laughing, but the ferryman was sipping his beer and paying no attention. Aziraphale considered the matter for a moment, then tweaked the air so that their merriment carried more readily to his ears. He glanced over at the table—aha, that had done the trick—but then looked away again. 

Dammit. Fine, this was a temptation; the man should, therefore, have the option to turn it down. But he hadn’t paid close enough attention yet for Aziraphale to be certain that he’d done his best and simply not succeeded. 

(Which would be for the best, presumably? Except would it then get Crowley into trouble? Oh dear.)

The ferryman was most of the way through his first pint; that ought to make things a little easier. Aziraphale was very familiar with the effect of alcohol on human corporations. Another roar from the dice players, and the ferryman looked over again. Now would be the moment.

 _Aren’t they having fun?_ Aziraphale gently inserted the idea into the man’s head, saw his lips turn up a little. _It’s been a good day for me. Don’t I deserve a little fun?_

“Nicely done,” Crowley said quietly. 

And, indeed, Aziraphale could see the man’s attention shifting, focussing. He prepared another thought— _Surely that one’s luck is bound to run out soon_ —but before he could try to insert it, the ferryman had shifted closer to the dice players, was saying something to them...and yes, there, they were shifting round to let him in.

He’d done it. 

“There you go,” Crowley said. “Perfect.”

He felt a warm glow of satisfaction, immediately followed by a strong blast of doubt. He was an angel. He shouldn’t feel _pleased_ that he had tempted someone. But Crowley was right: it was about giving them choices. That was the whole point. The ferryman didn’t _have_ to join in the dice game. He could have turned away again. And in any case, Crowley would do it if he didn’t, and Crowley had already done a blessing so obviously Aziraphale owed him a temptation, and Crowley doing blessings was evidently a good thing, so…

“Get you another ale?” Crowley offered, and Aziraphale started slightly, cutting through the tangle of his own thoughts. “Celebration, yeah? Now we’ve both got this new Arrangement underway.” 

“Oh. Yes, please. Certainly. It is very good ale. One ought to encourage the brewer.”

“Absolutely,” Crowley agreed, and smirked at him, pushing his leg a little more overtly into Aziraphale’s. “And then, later on, maybe we should encourage each other a bit, hmm?”

Aziraphale blushed to the roots of his hair, and Crowley smirked a little more, and went off to fetch the ale. 

Well. That would be a pleasing end to the evening. The idea gave him a delightful warm glow throughout his corporation. He glanced over once more at the ferryman, now fully engrossed in the dice game, and then turned away, and dismissed him from attention. It was a choice. That was all.

“This is going to make life a lot easier,” Crowley said, an hour or so and a fair amount of ale later. He was lounging back against the wall, legs outstretched, his smile across at Aziraphale lazy and affectionate.

“Hm?”

Crowley gestured with his ale mug. “This—Arrangement. Going to make life a lot easier for both of us, isn’t it? Much less running around. Great saving on time, effort, and shoe leather.”

Aziraphale felt a sudden pulse of worry. Crowley was right—of course he was right. In which case...was that really something he ought to be doing? Making life easier for himself, even; surely that was Sloth? And making life easier for Crowley, who was after all a demon, and his official adversary, was that even worse? 

And yet—She had given humans free will, and part of that had to be that they should be given the opportunity to exercise it. To choose what was right. But more importantly, this new Arrangement meant that Crowley was doing blessings, and if Crowley was doing blessings—performing Good in the world—then Crowley was, surely, becoming more forgivable. And in that case, Aziraphale giving Crowley that opportunity (did the two of them have free will? He dangled for a moment over an unfortunate doubting precipice, then pulled himself back from it) was a positive thing. Almost, one might argue, a moral imperative. 

“Angel?” Crowley asked. “You alright over there?”

“Hm? Oh. Yes. I was just…”

“Thinking too much,” Crowley diagnosed. “More alcohol required.”

When Crowley returned with further mugs of ale, Aziraphale made a slightly hazy attempt to explain. “I was thinking, you see. About how well you performed that blessing, the other day.”

Crowley shifted slightly, pulling into himself a little, his eyes wary behind his glasses. “Yeah, well. Like I say. Basically the same thing, if you ask me.”

“Well, I mean, you say that,” Aziraphale said, “but surely. I mean.” Even through the fug of alcohol he began to realise that he was on slightly dangerous ground. “I just think that, to be able to do that…”

“You,” Crowley interrupted flatly, “did a temptation. So if it says something about me that I can do a blessing, it says something about you that you can do a temptation.”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together. He felt certain that the two things weren’t the same at all—after all, _he_ was doing it to support Crowley, and that was a good thing, not a bad one at all—but he’d known Crowley for a long time, and the demon’s tone and manner were boding no good at all. He didn’t want to spoil a lovely evening.

“I reckon,” Crowley said, relaxing a little as Aziraphale didn’t say anything more, “that mostly what it says is we’re both a bit lazy.” His expression was lighter now, teasing, and Aziraphale fell back, with relief, into their customary gentle bickering.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, drawing himself up primly, and casting a glance at Crowley under his lashes. “I prefer to describe us as _efficient_.”

Crowley threw his head back with a crack of laughter, and the moment fell back into the comfort of time together. And, a little later, into the comfort of time together. And that, too, could hardly be sinful, could it, if it came from a place of love? Blessings, love, affection—surely Aziraphale was right, and Crowley could be saved.

* * *

**Turin, 1381**

It was all going splendidly, if Aziraphale thought about it the right way. He and Crowley wrote fairly often—at least once a year—to compare assignments, and met a couple of times a decade in dark pubs and back rooms of brothels and unconsecrated cloisters. Each meeting was a struggle to talk business in code, to make the most of limited time in vigorous bursts of passionate, if abbreviated, lovemaking before either of their sides came calling. Sometimes it was simply too dangerous for them to do more than brush their knees together under the table while Crowley watched Aziraphale take a meal. Sometimes, as in recent years, the events of the world had seemed rather too grim to be getting on with anything so pleasurable as sex, and they had merely pressed one another’s hands, frowning, and gotten steadily drunk.

Aziraphale saved every letter and read them all again and again. Crowley was of course too shrewd to include anything so dangerous as a reference to how his blessings and celestial miracles were getting on, never mind any open endearments or the like. But Aziraphale took a great deal of pleasure in working out the hidden references in Crowley’s messages, and in secreting little tokens of love and updates on recent temptations in his own. It all felt very cloak and dagger, and Aziraphale wiggled in his chair as he thought of the precise turn of phrase that would read innocently on the surface while reminding Crowley of the spectacular and thematically appropriate way Aziraphale had rewarded her for bringing fecundity to a struggling clan’s sheep.

And this morning, they were to meet for the first time in a little over two years, as their assignments had brought them both to Turin. They would toss a coin, as had become traditional, and perhaps Aziraphale would have the pleasure of advising Crowley on a blessing.

Crowley was doing blessings and other properly holy acts regularly now as part of their little Arrangement. Aziraphale devoutly hoped that this might be having a salutary effect. 

If only! The plan that had come to him so long ago, of Crowley asking God’s forgiveness and being allowed to rejoin the Heavenly Host—why, it would solve everything. There would be no need for all this skulking around. They could write to one another openly, see one another openly. They could work together, sleep together—how many times had Aziraphale craved the simple luxury so many humans enjoyed, of dozing off in one another’s arms, lolling about indulgently; waking up together, breakfast in bed...If Crowley were an angel again, they would no longer need to hide their light under a bushel.

(Never mind that Aziraphale could not recollect or even imagine a single instance of angels in romantic love. Clearly such a thing was permissible. Or in any case more permissible than an angel and a demon.)

Crowley had been doing blessings for several hundred years now, and Aziraphale had to admit that he seemed the same as ever. But then, of course he would vigorously deny any benevolent influences at work upon him. 

Aziraphale frowned. Although...it was also true that regardless of the temptations he had been doing on Crowley’s behalf, Aziraphale could not see that there were any malevolent influences at work upon _him_. Apart from Crowley himself, of course, and he certainly didn’t count—Aziraphale was quite accomplished at thwarting him by this time. In which case, perhaps the same might be true of Crowley...But no. The whole point was that Crowley could become Better, and since Aziraphale’s own temptations were in the service of that aim, obviously they wouldn’t affect him in any negative way. That didn’t mean that Crowley was equally unaffected. 

So far, though, none of the blessings and divine miracles Crowley had done were really significant. Aziraphale had witnessed him healing individual people or curing orchards of blights, that sort of thing. And while Crowley sometimes seemed quietly chuffed (especially when he got to work with plants or children), there was never any lasting effect. Today, Aziraphale wanted very much to see him in action. But he would have to tread carefully with his request. He didn’t want Crowley to get the idea that he was hatching a plan.

Aziraphale arrived at the designated rendezvous, a graveyard at the centre of town near the confluence of the Po river and the Dora Riparia, a few minutes late and found Crowley lounging against the portal of a tomb. His hair was gathered neatly into a sort of pageboy style under a black cap, and he was looking down, polishing his glasses on a silk kerchief. His short doublet exposed his long legs in their carmine hose, and Aziraphale wanted very much to drop to his knees.

Instead, Aziraphale cleared his throat until he caught Crowley’s eye, and had the pleasure of watching the slight dimple appear in the demon’s cheek as he recognized him. Crowley peeled himself away from the doorframe and disappeared inside the tomb, and Aziraphale followed. He blinked in the shadows, his eyes adjusting, and felt Crowley take his elbow.

“All right, angel?”

“My dear,” Aziraphale said, turning toward Crowley’s warmth. “Is it safe?”

“No problems on my side. You?”

Aziraphale had already performed his search of the area. He couldn’t wait any longer. “Come here. Come and kiss me.”

Crowley’s scent filled his nostrils as his lips pressed Aziraphale’s, and Aziraphale hummed as he wrapped his hand around Crowley’s nape, his fingers in his hair. Crowley’s hands came up to Aziraphale’s face as he opened the kiss, his tongue darting into Aziraphale’s mouth. Crowley cradled him tenderly, his thumbs brushing Aziraphale’s cheeks. Aziraphale melted. He’d had such feverish visions, but Crowley’s sweet mood was tempering his, making him pliant, romantic.

“Missed you,” Crowley murmured into his ear, and Aziraphale could hear the catch in his voice. To his surprise, his own eyes stung with tears.

“Oh, my darling, I missed you too,” he said, his throat tight and aching. He pulled Crowley against him and felt Crowley’s arms squeeze him fiercely for a moment, two. Then they broke apart, Crowley sniffing. 

“That doublet suits you,” Aziraphale said, dabbing his eyes with his handkerchief.

“Yours doesn’t,” Crowley frowned. “Those sleeves went out sixty years ago.”

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale said, pretending a vexation he did not feel. “So, what vile acts are on the agenda today?”

Crowley’s mouth went slack for a moment, and then he broke into a wicked grin. “Did you mean my assignment, or did you want to fuck in a tomb?”

Aziraphale blushed. “I—your assignment, obviously.”

“Nothing very interesting, I’m afraid. Cleric here considering robbing the poorbox. What’ve you got for me?”

Aziraphale took a moment to shift gears. It wouldn’t do to oversell this, but it was very special. And if everything worked as he’d envisioned, Crowley would have a crucial, benevolent role to play in human affairs, and Aziraphale would be well positioned to observe the event—and its effect on Crowley himself. “There are some—negotiations—this afternoon, to be blessed. Down in the city centre.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “What sort of negotiations?” 

Aziraphale worked to keep his expression neutral. “The Green Count is mediating between the heads of Venice and Genoa. It’s about the war.” The War of Chioggia had raged for three years, slaughtering thousands over nothing more than trade. If talks were successful today, that war could end. Crowley could help to end it.

“Sounds big.”

“It’s just a bit of diplomacy. Well, several hours of diplomacy, to be honest. Probably frightfully dull.” Aziraphale produced a coin with a flourish. He struggled to suppress his excitement. He’d never attempted anything like this before, but it was so important that Crowley perform this blessing, Aziraphale had worked on it all night. He could only manage it about seventy percent of the time. But he had to trust in his practice and his dexterity; if he used a miracle, Crowley would know it instantly. “Heads or tails?”

Crowley’s teeth flashed in the dark. “Tails.”

Aziraphale concentrated, and the coin landed smartly on the back of his hand, heads up. He was exultant, and allowed himself to gloat just a little. Crowley looked irritated.

“Oh, don’t pout. I’ll meet you at the pub on Corso Palestro tonight when it’s all over. Drinks on me, all right?” Crowley’s cheek was smooth and warm under his lips. It was always so hard to tear himself away.

But less than an hour later, he was secreted behind the draperies in the Palazzo Madama, watching Crowley gladhand his way through the assembly and take a seat at the long table, welcomed among the esteemed heads of the noble cities for this vital conversation. And as the talks evolved from curt recriminations to peacemaking under Crowley’s blessing, Aziraphale watched the demon’s face subtly transform. The bitter war that had wasted so many lives was ending due to Crowley’s influence, and Crowley was, well. He was enjoying himself.

Aziraphale didn’t think he’d ever seen Crowley wear quite this expression before. He looked content. Aziraphale felt warm all over. Crowley liked doing good. Crowley liked doing significant good, angelic good. How long could it be before he would acknowledge his little mistakes, and ask God to forgive them? How long could it be before they were on the same side, at last?

Before the ink had dried on the treaty, Aziraphale hurried away to meet Crowley at the pub. He was just getting comfortable with a cup of Barbaresco when an uncomfortable shimmer announced Gabriel’s presence beside him. Aziraphale nearly upset his cup. Gabriel almost never made field visits.

“G-Gabriel! What a pleasant surprise.”

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel boomed, immaculate as ever in his fur-trimmed overdress. He clapped Aziraphale unnecessarily hard on the shoulder. “Great job back there at the peace talks! Thanks to you, this ridiculous little scuffle is over. You’ve helped save a lot of indignity and waste. This will look great in your performance review.”

Aziraphale blinked. The War of Chioggia was a minor event in human history, all things considered—certainly not something he’d ever thought Gabriel would pay any attention to, except insofar as it increased Heaven’s tally of souls. All wars pained Aziraphale greatly (and Crowley too), but the other angels had never expressed much interest. He swallowed and dared to search Gabriel’s face for clues to this mystery.

As always, he found nothing beyond simple jocularity and veiled passive-aggression. Nothing amiss there, but this didn’t add up. Why on earth was Gabriel here? What did it mean?

“Thank you very much. Just doing my job, you know. Glad it worked out all right.”

“Yep, great work, great work. We’re always on the lookout for high achievers.” Gabriel’s eyes roamed around the bar and he couldn’t keep a look of distaste from his face. “Well, I won’t keep you. Enjoy your—” he waved a hand vaguely “whatever.” And then he was gone.

It didn’t sit right with Aziraphale, taking credit for ending this war, however minor a skirmish it might be in the scheme of things. Even if it had been he, not Crowley, at the talks today, it would have been the humans’ responsibility to end the war—just as it had been their fault the war had started in the first place, never mind the influence of a certain flaming sword. That’s what free will was meant to be all about, surely. 

Aziraphale shifted in his seat. Oh, dear. Maybe this wasn’t about his assignment at all. What if it was about The Arrangement? Perhaps they were growing careless.

It was almost an hour before Crowley stumbled in, already tipsy to judge by the blush across the bridge of his endearingly bent nose. “Hope you didn’t wait for me,” he said a little too loudly as he slithered into his chair and draped his arm over Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Beastly hard trying to disentangle myself from all those ambassador types. Couldn’t get enough of me.” His grin glimmered in the low light. 

“You have the start of me, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said quietly, unable to restrain an answering smile. He lifted his cup. “But I’m catching up. Pour you some of this? It’s rather nice?”

“Sure, sure,” Crowley boomed, expansive, “and what’s that you’re eating? Would I like it?”

“Please keep your voice down,” Aziraphale murmured. “This is ravioli with gorgonzola and truffles. You’re welcome to try. I think you’d like the truffles particularly.”

“What’s the second one you said?” Crowley said, filling his cup. He knocked it back and poked a dubious finger at the fat creamy rectangles piled on Aziraphale’s trencher. It wasn’t often Crowley ate anything, at least not in Aziraphale’s presence. Usually only when he was in the best of moods. Aziraphale was loath to dampen his spirits but Gabriel’s visit had thrown him for a loop.

“Gorgonzola, it’s a cheese, it’s very nice. Only,” he whispered, as Crowley carried a wedge of pasta to his lips, “do be quiet about it, we’re rather exposed here.”

Crowley withdrew his arm from Aziraphale’s shoulders and looked round hastily, still nibbling at the ravioli. “What’s got you in a tizzy?”

“Gabriel was here. Wanted to...congratulate me on my success at the peace talks today.”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. “But that was—”

“Exactly. And no, the archangels aren’t in the habit of popping down here to thank me for a job well done.”

Crowley slouched down on the high-backed bench, leaning away from Aziraphale for the first time. But Aziraphale felt the toe of his boot against his instep, knocking. “Think it means they’re onto us?”

“I don’t know what it means.” Aziraphale looked down at his hands, which were wringing the edge of his jerkin. He’d been so happy, just an hour before. And Crowley, oh Crowley, how often had he seen him so pleased, so proud?

Crowley furrowed his brow, touched his temples in the gesture he sometimes made when scanning for demonic interference. Then he shrugged and reached for an olive. “Aaah, probably just a coincidence.”

“But you don’t know that!”

“Look, is anyone watching right now? Anyone listening?”

Aziraphale concentrated. He wasn’t as good at detecting this as Crowley was. Normally, Crowley was the one who made sure they were safe. On the other hand, Aziraphale had had far less to drink this evening. And Crowley deserved a night off. He had done such good work today. Such good work. “I can’t detect anything.”

Crowley spat the olive pit into his palm. “Then we’re fine,” he said, wiping his hands. He stroked the back of Aziraphale’s hand lightly with his knuckle. “Stop worrying and let me tell you about Señor Herrero.”

Crowley’s long, elegant finger traced a cool circle on the back of Aziraphale’s hot hand. He looked up to see the relaxed set of Crowley’s shoulders, the twist of his smile, and Aziraphale let himself lean back a little. “All right. Tell me about him.”

“Lost two sons and a daughter-in-law to the war. Raising his grandson by himself. Came all the way from Venice to hear the negotiations today, brought the little tyke with him too, no one left to stay with him, I guess.” Crowley took a meditative sip of wine, and Aziraphale watched his red tongue swipe over his lower lip. “He didn’t figure on speaking up. Señor Herrero isn’t that kind of man—or wasn’t, until I laid the blessing over him.” Crowley tilted his head down, nudged Aziraphale’s shoulder with his own.

Aziraphale had seen the whole thing, of course, hiding behind the draperies. But he was rapt. He had seen Crowley speak boastfully before, when he’d pulled off a particularly complex scheme of interference with humans, inevitably making their lives more difficult. But the look on his face was different here. There was a soft kind of yearning in it.

“What happened then? What did your blessing do?”

“He got up in front of the whole group of elder statesmen and whatnot, made a little speech. Said he’d like to know if he was to lose both sons, a daughter, and his sole surviving relation to a war, not for the glory of God but for mere men and their purses and their sense of importance.”

“My goodness. That does sound inspiring.” And it had been, truly.

Crowley was smiling, and Aziraphale stroked his cheek where it dimpled. “They weren’t moved, of course. Guys like that never are. But the other commoners there, they started a bit of a rumble, stamping their feet and all, and the next thing you know everybody wanted to be the first to sign the treaty.” He laughed softly. “I did it. I really did it.”

“You did.” Aziraphale kissed him. Wonder looked so handsome on Crowley, he was nearly beside himself all of a sudden. Overcome with love, and also with hope. “Oh, goodness, I’m forgetting myself.” He pulled out the coin he had tossed earlier that day and placed it on the table. He looked up into those infernal black lenses. “Let me take you upstairs?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Aziraphale followed Crowley up the narrow passageway. Crowley wasn’t quite drunk, just a little wobbly; should he need support, Aziraphale would be there. The door was barely closed behind them before Aziraphale reached for Crowley’s spectacles. “Okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, ‘course,” Crowley said, as his eyes were revealed, pupils shrinking slightly even in the waning glow of sunset. The summer night was too hot for a fire and Aziraphale was eager to get undressed, even more eager to get Crowley out of his clothes. They rarely had time for such indulgences, but he thought if they were quick they might just manage it. Oh, he didn’t want to be quick.

“I want to look after you tonight,” he said, pressing his lips to Crowley’s temple as he divested him of his hat. 

“Suits me,” Crowley said, arms wrapping around Aziraphale’s waist. “What did you have in mind?”

Aziraphale, having revealed Crowley’s hair, ran his fingers through the russet waves, burnished in the amber light. “Oh, Lord, you’re so beautiful I can’t stand it.” He kissed Crowley’s red mouth, running his tongue along his inner lip, and Crowley groaned as he opened to him. Their tongues stroked one another, and Aziraphale plunged deeper, winding his fist in Crowley’s hair and tugging until Crowley whined, then releasing to comb through it lightly. He broke the kiss to nibble at Crowley’s lips, the sharp curve of his stubbled jaw. “Whatever you like, my love. The night is yours. It’s your triumph we’re celebrating.”

“Celebrating, hm?” Crowley’s hands slid down over Aziraphale’s arse, squeezed, then roamed up over his back. Abruptly he flopped down on the bed, pulling Aziraphale down after him, on top of him. “Then I want you inside me.”

A spark flared under Aziraphale’s breast at the thought of it. “Yes, my darling, yes.” He untied Crowley’s tunic and got his mouth on the graceful slope of his neck, the angle of his shoulder. Crowley’s scent filled his nose. “Do you want to be caressed? Or do you want it hard and dirty?” He bit down gently on Crowley’s nipple.

“Fuck, angel, you know I can’t think when you talk like that,” Crowley gasped.

“Of course I know that, darling. Why do you think I do it?” At Crowley’s inbreath, Aziraphale chuckled, “No, no, don’t answer that, rhetorical question.” He helped Crowley off with his tunic, revealing the fine planes of his chest, the flat pectorals arcing into the subtle bulge of the deltoids. Aziraphale kissed here, there.

“Tease me,” Crowley said at last, arching up beneath him as Aziraphale sucked his other nipple.

“Oh, _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale said, doing a hasty scan of the inn for aethereal and occult presences and profoundly hoping he would have time to do this properly, “Oh, I will, I _will_.” He dragged his teeth down Crowley’s chest and then sat back on his heels, admiring the pale, taut lines of Crowley’s body, the straining curve of his prick in his red hose. Then he stood to undress himself.

Crowley made as if to get up and help, then thought better of it and lay back, pillowing his head on one arm, eyes gleaming, saturated with the light of the sunset that painted him rose-gold all over. Aziraphale held his eyes for a while, then turned away and bent to remove his boots, giving Crowley a view Aziraphale knew he liked. Crowley chuckled.

“Are you making a counter-offer?”

“Not at all. You said you wanted to be teased. I’m teasing you.”

“You definitely are. Bring that over here.”

Aziraphale stood up, shucking his tunic, and turned round. He removed his hose. He was so wet they fairly stuck to him. Crowley’s eyes widened.

“Angel, you—”

“Yes, well, it’s been a while, but I enjoyed it so much last time that I—now, what are you smiling at?”

Aziraphale climbed onto the bed, astride Crowley, smiling right back at him.

“Can’t I smile at you if I like?”

Aziraphale sat his weight right down on him, Crowley’s length pressing deliciously against his clit, and rode him in subtle rocking motions for a few seconds. Crowley’s smile dissolved into something broken and wanton. “You can certainly try.” 

He lifted off Crowley and divested him of his boots and hose. At the foot of the bed there, Crowley’s delicate ankle in his hand, he knelt, kissing up the slightly rounded calf, pushing Crowley’s mile-long legs up and back. He moved up onto the bed again, stroking and nuzzling. The smell of Crowley twined around him like a vine. He buried his face in the wealth of Crowley’s balls, tight and rising, lightly furred with their flaming hair, salty and pungent. Aziraphale could smell his own scent too, where he had left his imprint through Crowley’s hose. As always, their mingled essence thrilled him.

“Ngk,” said Crowley, fingertips digging into Aziraphale’s shoulders and trying unsuccessfully to tug him higher. 

“You know that won’t work, darling,” Aziraphale sang quietly, darting instead lower, grazing Crowley’s perineum with his tongue.

“Fuck.”

“Perhaps later.”

Aziraphale crawled up the bed on hands and knees and smiled to see Crowley, one hand covering his face, splayed out, hips rocking subtly against nothing at all, his cock leaking fluid onto his flat belly.

“Move your hand for me, will you, my dear? I’m coming up.”

Crowley dropped his hand by his side and opened his eyes as Aziraphale carefully placed one knee on the pillow either side of his head. Crowley craned eagerly toward his cunt, and Aziraphale could feel his hot breath feathering over his labia, and then his clit as they parted. But Aziraphale put his hand on Crowley’s forehead and denied them both.

“I didn’t say you could move.”

Crowley groaned, and Aziraphale nearly did as well, a mere two inches between his tingling clit and Crowley’s talented mouth.

“You cannot touch my cunt. You may not kiss it or lick it.”

Crowley’s eyes were wide. His tongue, forked, flickered out and tasted the air. He sucked his tongue back into his mouth with a thin wet sound and swallowed. “Fuck,” he said again, voice breaking.

Aziraphale’s fingers trembled as he stroked over his mound and down against his clit, and he closed his eyes and shuddered at the perfect pressure. Opening them, he locked his gaze to Crowley’s and slid further down, gathering slickness from inside and spreading it all over himself. Crowley’s nostrils flared.

At this moment, wishing fervently that it were unnecessary, Aziraphale remembered to do another security check. Keeping his hand moving and his eyes on Crowley, he probed the corners of the room, the downstairs area of the inn, and the surrounding streets for celestial (and, to the degree possible, occult) interference. Nothing. He allowed himself to exhale.

“Crowley, you are so precious to me.” Desire flared back up, filling the space it had left. Crowley always looked after them both. He was so good. So good. And now—now he was getting better. Who knew what might be possible.

“Please, angel, let me,” Crowley licked his lips.

“No,” Aziraphale said, his fingers working faster on his clit, “I don’t think so.”

“Are you gonna come? Let me see you come, angel.”

Aziraphale thought about it, but it would take time, time he badly wanted to spend giving Crowley what he’d asked for. He pushed himself over to one side and slid alongside Crowley, tilting his face over for a kiss. Crowley seemed to kiss his mouth the way he would have kissed his cunt, had he been given the chance; his tongue flickered fast and hot, and he groaned into it, loose and slick. Aziraphale’s cunt clenched in response and a flood of wetness spilled onto his thighs. Ah. Well, there was a needful thing.

“Roll over, sweetheart, and let me tend to you.”

“Thank fuck,” Crowley grumbled into the pillow, already turned over onto his face. He pulled his knees up, presenting the paucity of his arse to Aziraphale’s wet fingers.

Rolling them in his own slickness, he dipped into Crowley’s cleft and circled gently. Crowley puffed a soundless exhale into the linen.

“All right, darling?”

“Don’t stop.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Crowley opened eagerly for two fingers, cool skin parting to infernal heat inside. Aziraphale went slowly, as Crowley had asked him to tease, but Crowley was pushing back against him with increasingly desperate rolling motions of his clever hips.

“Nnng.”

“More?”

“Yeah.” Aziraphale curled his fingers, brushed the seat of love inside. “Ah, _yeah_.” Another finger, and Crowley still did not feel tight so much as hungry, gripping willfully at his hand with internal muscles while his body thrashed and broken sounds emerged from his bitten lips.

“You really must let me do at least some of the work here,” Aziraphale cajoled, slipping his pinky past Crowley’s rim, his other hand on the small of his back to quiet him. A slight gasp, and now he did feel tight, and squirmed minutely against the sensation.

“Ffffff—”

“Too much?”

“Fucking perfect, just—ha—don’t move for a sec—”

Aziraphale did not exactly disobey. He kept the hand that was inside Crowley perfectly still. His other hand, though. His other hand moved beneath him, to stroke Crowley’s long prick back to full hardness in slow, tender, and then increasingly firm caresses.

“Oh, oh,” Crowley moaned, beginning to rock into both of Aziraphale’s hands. Aziraphale tried moving the hand that was inside him, just that bit deeper into the wet heat of him, and Crowley met his thrust with exuberance.

“Oh my G— oh my—ah! Ah!” Crowley bucked and shied like a foal under his hands as he striped the blanket with come, and then fell shivering onto his side. 

Aziraphale was still inside him, his arm stretched a bit awkwardly. He moved his other hand to Crowley’s flank and Crowley flinched, oversensitive, then gentled. He began, ever so slowly, to withdraw. Crowley hissed and Aziraphale made soothing sounds and petted him through it, then spooned up behind him, Crowley’s head pillowed on his arm.

“You were wonderful, Crowley. Just breathtaking.”

Crowley snorted. “That’s what I say to you at this point.”

“Perhaps we were both very good, then.” And wouldn’t that be something. He kissed Crowley between the shoulderblades, inhaling deeply their mingled scent, feeling the movement of Crowley’s breath under his lips. Then, with regret, he miracled himself clean and dressed.

Crowley was already asleep. Aziraphale pressed a quick kiss to his temple before he left the room.

* * *

**Arreau, France, 1501**

Aziraphale had been vaguely aware of what was going on in Spain, allegedly in Her name, and had had no intention whatsoever of going anywhere near it. He’d never liked the aspects of human belief that involved them being unpleasant to one another, especially violently unpleasant—all those Crusades, for example, and whilst Richard Coeur de Lion might have written some lovely poetry, you could hardly call the man _holy_ , could you? No, Aziraphale preferred to stay away from that sort of thing. When he’d been given an assignment just the northern side of the Pyrenees, he was deeply grateful it wasn’t the southern side. 

He hadn’t expected, after he was done with his blessing, to run into Crowley in the small town up in the mountains. A Crowley who had bags under his eyes, and a slightly wild look about him, and who had evidently had far too much wine already that evening. 

“Aziraphale. Aziraphale! What’re you doing here? They thought it was mine, you know. Nothing to do with me. Supposed to be yours. Can’t imagine it was anything to do with you, either. All the humans, all by themselves, this one.”

As a rule Aziraphale was significantly more likely to join Crowley in a bottle or two than to try to persuade him away from them, but even to him it was evident that Crowley was doing himself no favours at all, drinking himself further into misery this way. 

“Stinks, you know. The burning,” Crowley confided in him. “Like Down There. I hate it Down There.” 

“How about we go for a lovely walk?” Aziraphale suggested, retrieving the bottle of wine from Crowley’s fingers as he gestured erratically with it.

“I was drinking,” Crowley said, with a frown.

“Yes. And now I’m suggesting that you stop drinking and come with me,” Aziraphale said, a little more firmly.

“I’m not, I’m not…” Crowley was shaking his head.

“It’s lovely outside,” Aziraphale said, then, attempting an inducement, “and we can bring that bottle with us. If you like.”

He had no intention of letting Crowley anywhere near it again, if he could avoid it, but apparently that was enough to sell the idea, and Crowley dutifully followed him out of the inn. Not a moment too soon, from the slightly concerned expression on the innkeeper’s face. That was a first; Crowley was usually capable of convincing the proprietors of drinking establishments to tolerate him regardless of how inebriated he was, although the large gold coins undoubtedly helped with that.

Crowley’s conversation, as they meandered along the road and a little way out of the village—well, Crowley meandered, and Aziraphale did his best to ensure that he didn’t meander directly into the unpleasant-smelling ditch beside the roadway—made it abundantly clear that Aziraphale’s decision to avoid Spain just at the moment was entirely wise.

Indeed, it sounded like Crowley should have avoided it too, and Aziraphale said as much.

“They thought it was me!” Crowley said, throwing his arms wide. “A fucking _commendation_. Humans. God knows why we even need to bother.”

“Well yes, I imagine She does,” Aziraphale muttered, but Crowley wasn’t listening.

“They do fine just on their own. Ugh.” He pulled a face, and grabbed the bottle out of Aziraphale’s hand to take another slug. “ _They_ think it’s all terribly holy, you know. Aren’t they going to get a fucking shock when their time comes Down There.”

Aziraphale felt a great deal of sympathy for Crowley—he too struggled to grasp the things that humans could think up to do to one another—but at the same time, part of him couldn’t help but think, _well, surely this is a Sign_. Crowley was distressed, at something that Hell thought was a good thing; surely, this demonstrated something about Crowley’s own _position_ , in a theological sense. 

“Bloody Hell,” Crowley was muttering. “Arseholes.” 

“Well, yes. They are all damned,” Aziraphale agreed, thinking that he was agreeing with Crowley. 

Well; he was agreeing with Crowley. He was just wrong about that being what Crowley wanted. Crowley spun round, eyes wild again, and pointed the bottle at Aziraphale. “ _We_ are all damned, yes, don’t worry, I haven’t fucking forgotten that, angel. We Fell, and you didn’t. Not even when you gave away that damn sword. That’s what this is, you know. That’s what they say about it. It’s _war_ , angel. A holy War. That burning sword, still burning after all these millennia. And yet it’s me that’s damned, it’s me that gets the blame for it…”

Aziraphale was torn between shock, distress, and the very uncomfortable feeling that Crowley had a point. That sword. He’d always felt awkward about that; but they’d been in danger out there, Adam and Eve, and it was up to them what they did with it after that, wasn’t it? Free will? 

“The humans choose what they do with the sword,” he said, a little stiffly. 

“Free will.” Crowley said it like a curse. “They’ve got it, we don’t, that’s all there is to it, isn’t there? Shit, shit, I’m sorry, angel, ’m terrible company tonight. Shouldn’t have said that. It’s not, it’s not…”

“It’s perfectly fair,” Aziraphale said, quietly.

“‘M just not—hell of a thing when the humans have a worse imagination than you do, and you’re a damn demon. Fuck.” Crowley rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Really shouldn’t have gone to look, you’re right. Better not to know, sometimes, isn’t it? Always been my problem, hasn’t it, curiosity. There we go. Not like it hasn’t bitten me before, eh?” He got a slightly confused look. “Or I’ve bitten it. Snake, innit. Oh I dunno.”

“Come on,” Aziraphale said, trying to sound soothing. “There’s an inn in the next village along. I was there earlier, perfectly pleasant place. An excellent stew. How about we walk along there, walk off the alcohol a bit, and then you can have a nice nap.” 

He expected Crowley to argue a bit more, but his shoulders sagged, and he nodded. “Yeah. Probably right, angel. Nap. You c’n have some stew, eh? Yeah.” 

He needed to remember: Crowley might be getting better, but that didn’t mean he was ready to admit to it. Aziraphale had to take things more gently than this. Not just go blundering in with such a lack of subtlety. 

He was, though. He really was getting Better. Aziraphale was sure of it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You don’t have to be Down There, Crowley. You could ask—you could be forgiven. By Her. You could rejoin the Host. And then you’d never need to worry again.”
> 
> “And what, exactly, is it that I’m supposed to ask forgiveness for?”

**Paris, 1793**

“Where are you staying?” Crowley asked, his voice rough in a way Aziraphale had come to associate with a gratifying urgency. He watched Aziraphale over his dark lenses. 

Aziraphale shivered, licking the last traces of lemon and sugar from the corner of his mouth as flirtatiously as he could before dabbing with his napkin. “Just around the corner, actually.” Only a few moments more, and he would be tasting Crowley’s lips, sucking the flavours of Muscadet and strawberries from his tongue.

Crowley smiled. “Convenient.”

“Intentional. I selected my lodgings based on proximity to the best crêperie.” Aziraphale wiped his fingers as Crowley laughed, and then he laughed too. “Shall we go?”

Really, he couldn’t remember when he’d had such a lovely time. From what had begun as a miserable inconvenience, Crowley had made the most romantic afternoon, leaping (all right, slouching) to his rescue, freeing him from his chains, entertaining him through lunch with increasingly ribald stories, finding every opportunity to trade casual touches and heated caresses both above and below the table. And now he’d offered his arm and was leading Aziraphale along the street, nestled against him and steering him protectively around puddles. Aziraphale was all aglow.

A demon rescuing an angel. Surely this was divinely-inspired kindness, an act of great personal risk with no possible benefit to himself. Well, _that_ wasn’t true. Aziraphale sucked his teeth happily as they arrived at the little inn where he’d fetched up. There would certainly be a reward for Crowley in all this, if he had anything to say about it. And he didn’t mean lunch.

If Crowley could do this, leave whatever business he’d had in England and risk his own skin to save Aziraphale from discorporation, humiliation, and piles of beastly paperwork, then surely he was deserving of God’s forgiveness. This wasn’t mere friendliness, this was practically self-sacrifice. It was generosity. It was virtue.

What a pity he couldn’t say so to Crowley.

Crowley didn’t seem to think words were necessary; his arms went round Aziraphale’s waist before they were properly in the room, and Aziraphale shuddered as hot breath feathered against the back of his neck. He tingled down to his toes, his cock twitching.

“Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale murmured, rocking his hips back into Crowley’s.

Crowley kissed his ear. “Ugh, get these clothes off. Don’t smell right.”

Ah, yes, that filthy executioner and his ridiculous outfit. Aziraphale briefly mourned his lovely silks. He removed the phrygian cap and then plucked at Crowley’s arms, still wrapped around his middle. “I can’t very well remove these with you coiled around me like this, you old serpent.”

“Miracle ‘em away,” Crowley said, pressing against him in an insinuating manner, hips swiveling, one hand sliding down his stomach.

“I can’t! No frivolous miracles, remember? And don’t you do it either!” he said hastily, as Crowley lifted one hand to click. “Or I won’t have anything to wear tomorrow.”

“Poor angel,” Crowley said, slipping the coat from Aziraphale’s shoulders and tossing it over the bedstead, “alone and naked in Paris, with only a crêpe and a stiff-stander for company.” He deftly unbuttoned the trousers, and Aziraphale gasped at the gentle tease against his cock.

“That’s not true at all,” Aziraphale replied, quavering slightly. “I have been saved at the last moment by a dashing hero.” Crowley’s fingers stilled, and Aziraphale just barely heard the slight intake of breath. He seized the moment, and turned round. Crowley had removed his spectacles and his golden eyes were a bit glazed, his face flushed, lips parted. “And while he is here to look after me, I shall never lack for company.” Aziraphale raised a hand and raked his fingers through the ridiculous curls. “For I shall have the very best,” he murmured.

Crowley’s lips brushed his softly for a moment, warm and gentle, and then Crowley gathered him into a crushing kiss, moaning into it as he cupped the back of Aziraphale’s head. Thrilled, Aziraphale moaned too, and stroked Crowley’s back, pressing them closer together. He felt Crowley hard against him, and he had been longing for that all afternoon, but the ferocity of Crowley’s grip was everything at the moment. Crowley’s tongue slid over his own, and Aziraphale tasted strawberries, Muscadet, and hot metal. He wound his leg around Crowley’s, heat prickling all over him. Oh, this, this, let it never stop.

Crowley broke the kiss. “You can’t say things like that,” he said, unfastening his britches, his gaze still hovering on Aziraphale’s mouth. “They’re always listening.”

Aziraphale didn’t understand why, in this moment of triumphant surrender, he should be made to feel that they had to hide. As long as he didn’t perform any miracles, surely they were perfectly safe. Gabriel would be off his back for a little while and he could enjoy himself thoroughly. And he meant to. “But I still haven’t th—” Crowley kissed him again, fiercely, warningly. Aziraphale flailed and then settled his hands on Crowley’s shoulders as Crowley sucked, bit, and licked his lower lip. The fluttering tease of it made him curl his fingers in Crowley’s hair. “Haven’t thanked you properly for your courageous rescue!” he whispered around a pout.

“Ssshut it!” Crowley hissed. “I _told_ you. They’re around, must be, everything that’s going on here. Been talking about _performance reviews_ again, and… _oh_.” Aziraphale pulled his nails down the nape of Crowley’s neck at the same time as sliding his tongue into Crowley’s mouth. Crowley gasped, then gave a sort of infuriated collapse and wrapped his hand around Aziraphale’s cock. Aziraphale gasped as the hot pressure encircled him, Crowley’s thumb nudging his foreskin back.

“Yes, my love,” he breathed, and reached for Crowley’s cock. But Crowley already had himself in hand, and the feel of his fingers moving furiously, the sight of him working himself, his eyes shocked wide with desire, was so incendiary Aziraphale felt his heart beating in his ears. 

“Oh, you beautiful thing,” Crowley panted. “The risks you take. Ah,” he shivered. “Be the death of me.”

“Don’t say that, my dear—oh, yes, like that—” Aziraphale was already close to his crisis, and he wanted more, so much more. Normally he would only allow time for a quick fumble in the dark, but he felt positively reckless today. “No, no, stop, stop…”

Crowley stopped instantly, both hands dropping, his jaw dropping too. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Can you—inside me? Please?”

Crowley looked desperate, his brows rising toward his hairline, his eyes darting around the room. What on earth could he be hoping to find there? Aziraphale was already moving onto the bed, toeing off shoes, shoving trousers down, raising his legs. 

Crowley dropped his gaze and swallowed. “My—oh, angel. Yes, yes, of course.” And then Crowley was above him, braced on one strong, slender arm and gently teasing him with a slick finger. Aziraphale was well beyond teasing now and eagerly slid down on it with a groan, stroking his cock back to full hardness and thrilling at the twin sensations. Crowley’s face was all tenderness and consideration and it made Aziraphale want to melt helplessly into the pillows and beg for release.

“Come on then,” he whispered, as Crowley opened him around a second finger. “Claim your reward.”

A muscle jumped in Crowley’s temple and Aziraphale had the pleasure of soaking in the vision of his beloved face wrecked with want. And then the tingle of a demonic miracle in the air as Crowley anointed himself with oil, and then the glorious moment of Crowley sliding inside, pushing slowly and luxuriously into Aziraphale’s yearning body until he cried out from sheer happiness. The deep ache of it, the sublime sensation of fulfillment, overwhelmed him until it was all he needed in the world.

“Oh, love,” Crowley breathed, “You gorgeous thing, you feel…”

“You, you’re gorgeous,” Aziraphale moaned. “You’re perfect, perfect.”

Crowley withdrew shallowly, then slid back in gently, opening Aziraphale with tender care. So sweet, so delicate—Aziraphale’s heart bloomed with appreciation even as his body craved more. Aziraphale whined and clutched him with his thighs. Another slight, smooth movement, the strain of it plain on Crowley’s face, and Aziraphale bit his lip and threaded his hands in Crowley’s hair. Crowley kissed him then, softly, teasing his lips with little nibbles as he worked his hips in a maddeningly subtle fashion. Ah. Crowley was doing it on purpose, then.

Aziraphale ground his hips forward in an eager thrust and watched in exaltation as Crowley’s resolve shattered into a million pieces. With a snarl, Crowley gripped his hips and plunged in deep and hard and transcendently right. 

“Ah! Yes! _Just_ like that!”

The ache built in his pelvis, his cock trapped between them tight and hot, every stroke washing exquisite shimmering pleasure through him. And Crowley’s face, oh, the wonder in it, as though he were pounding away the years, the gulf between them, reveling at last in what he truly deserved.

“Darling, my darling,” Aziraphale groaned, as Crowley tilted his hips up and aimed at the center of him, the spot that sent waves of rapture crashing through him. Crowley’s tight fist drove down his cock as he hammered that beautiful spot over and over, and Aziraphale, incoherent, spilled his joy all over them both.

Crowley kissed him again, wanton, all finesse vanished. He laid Aziraphale’s hips back down on the mattress and slowed his strokes, still going hard. His eyes were wide and gold to the edges. His slick hand was groping now at Aziraphale’s shoulder. Aziraphale reached up and covered it with his own, drinking in the passion in those gold eyes. Crowley gasped and shuddered, and Aziraphale with delight felt the pulses of his cock as he spent inside him.

They belonged to each other, in every way that mattered. And if Crowley kept on with these wonderful selfless acts, no obstacles would stand in their way. They could be on the same side. Together like this, forever.

* * *

**London, 1862**

After he’d left Crowley in St James’ Park, Aziraphale stalked back to the bookshop in the most tremendous pitch of fury. How could Crowley even suggest such a thing? How could he even consider doing that to himself? And then to complain about _fraternising_ ; of course Aziraphale could hardly use any more explicit words, could he, right there in the middle of the park, surrounded by people. Crowley himself had been engaging in his ridiculous subterfuge, passing secret notes, talking about ducks having ears…

But before long, pacing around the bookshop, he began to wonder why Crowley would think of such a thing. He remembered the note he’d had from Crowley after their lovely interlude in Paris, warning him—without saying anything explicit, of course—that he’d encountered one of his demonic colleagues just after their liaison. Aziraphale had shuddered to think of the consequences if the timing had been different. If they’d been caught together. 

Of course Crowley was clever, and he’d be able to explain away The Arrangement; even the sexual relationship. Obviously, a demon tempting an angel to lust would be a triumph.

But Crowley loved Aziraphale, and if the Lords of Hell knew it, they would scour the flesh from his bones.

Before Paris, Crowley had tended to brush aside Aziraphale’s concerns about the consequences. Since then, although they’d met a few times, Crowley had been twitchier, more cautious. Constantly looking over his shoulder. 

Aziraphale, his stomach lurching, stopped dead in the middle of the bookshop as he realised the extent to which Crowley truly feared the torments of Hell. Enough that, if it came to it, he would end himself forever rather than fall into their hands. Which...

...well, Aziraphale still could not possibly countenance that, but he shouldn’t have been so disapproving. He should find Crowley, and try to offer another way of supporting him against Hell. Or simply being more discreet, or...something, anyway. 

Crowley’s current digs were on Grosvenor Square, in a house that was far too big for him (but apparently wholly necessary for the sake of appearances) and which seemed to have a new set of architectural furbelows on the frontage every time Aziraphale visited. Apparently this too had some kind of demonic value, although as far as Aziraphale could see it primarily had the effect of keeping builders in jobs. By the time Aziraphale alighted from the cab he’d taken over there, his emotions were entirely those of deep concern for Crowley.

He managed to hold onto that even when Crowley’s butler—honestly, what was Crowley doing with a butler?—showed him into the drawing room and Crowley, slouched on the sofa and scowling, didn’t get up or even look in his direction.

“What do you want, then?” he demanded.

“To apologise,” Aziraphale said, after a brief and unbecoming battle with his temper. 

Crowley did look over at that, his eyebrows going up behind his glasses. “Really? You?”

“There’s no need...Yes. I cannot approve of your plan, but I should have reacted less...precipitously. After all, I’ve always worried about your wellbeing should,” he gestured, “Downstairs ever catch up with you.”

“Bloody Hastur,” Crowley said, moodily. He looked a little more cheerful, or at least less like he might throw Aziraphale straight out the door again. Or, presumably, ask his butler to do so.

“Why _have_ you got a butler, Crowley?”

“Appearances. Don’t get sidetracked. Why can’t you approve of my plan, anyway? Thought you’d be all over anything that meant a demon bit the dust.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, and he felt something in the region of his human heart clenching painfully. “Crowley! How could you even _think_ that I...I mean, of course I wouldn’t…” He felt tears welling in the corners of his eyes.

Crowley looked taken aback. “Fine, fine, I know you’re a being of pure love and all that, but honestly, Hastur wouldn’t be that much of a loss to the world. To anyone, in fact.”

“Hastur?”

“What?” 

They stared at each other in mutual incomprehension for a moment. 

“Hang on,” Crowley said. “What did you think I wanted holy water for?”

“Well,” Aziraphale said. “In case Hell caught you. As a, a, an escape, I suppose. Like a poison tooth or something.”

“Like a...What the Heaven have you been reading, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale, who had a secret trove of sensation novels hidden in the back room of the bookshop, went slightly pink. 

“No, you idiot, I am not going to commit suicide to get away from Hell. I want it to use against them, if anyone ever comes after me. _I_ want to _survive_ , that’s the whole point.” Crowley still sounded impatient, but his gaze was fonder now. 

“Oh. Well. I suppose...even then, Crowley, it’s awfully dangerous. And,” Aziraphale hesitated. “I’m not sure I can approve even if it is Hastur or whoever.” It was one thing to smite a demon with one’s Heavenly sword—although Aziraphale’s recollections of the War in Heaven were not the slightest bit positive in any case—but holy water seemed...excessive, somehow. “And the risk to you. If it so much as splashed you…” The idea was horrible. Unthinkable.

“Yeah, maybe,” Crowley looked away, fiddling with his jacket cuff. “Maybe.”

“Are you really that worried? About Them?”

Crowley shrugged, not quite managing the offhand air he was going for. “I wouldn’t say worried. Not as such.”

“You were going on about ducks earlier. Spying on us. And you’re considering holy water.” He wanted to sit down by Crowley on his fashionable sofa, to take his hand; but Crowley was still looking a little too unapproachable. 

“Hastur keeps popping up, every few years, that’s all. Making snide remarks. The Boss, he’s fine. But...it’s not a nice collegiate atmosphere down there, you know, angel.”

“It’s not exactly a nice collegiate atmosphere up there, either,” Aziraphale said, a little ruefully, though now he came to think of it, he’d spent time in the Senior Common Rooms of some colleges that reminded him very powerfully of the way his colleagues in Heaven treated one another. He sighed. “I do worry about you, sometimes, Crowley.”

“You don’t need to worry about me, angel. I’ll be fine. Like I say, the Boss loves me. And my memos are works of art. It’s—fine.”

“But—oh, Crowley. Surely there’s an easier way than all of this?”

Crowley became very still. “What do you mean, an easier way?”

Oh dear. Was this a mistake? But...it would be such a simple solution. Maybe Crowley just needed it pointed out to him. Maybe this was, finally, the moment when everything could come right. “You don’t have to be Down There, Crowley. You could ask—you could be forgiven. By Her. You could rejoin the Host. And then you’d never need to worry again.” 

“And what, exactly, is it that I’m supposed to ask forgiveness for?” Crowley’s voice began to rise. “Questioning Her plan? Disobeying orders?” His mouth twisted, eyes narrowing. “Rebellion?”

Aziraphale winced. She must have had Her reasons, and yet… “I’m sure it’s a very long time since anyone’s thought about all that. It’s more important what happens now, and…”

“Or maybe something I did afterwardsss. All that messssing about with humansss.” The anger in his voice was plain, now. Anger and pain. Aziraphale forced himself to look at Crowley, his face tight in mockery, his neck straining. “Tempting them to make bad choicesss. You know, _being a demon_.”

“But you perform blessings!”

“And you perform temptations. If I should Rise, shouldn’t you Fall?”

“But the temptations...that’s only to help you, Crowley. To help you come back to Her.” Aziraphale took a step towards Crowley, his hand out in entreaty. “So we could be together, properly.”

Aziraphale could see, through Crowley’s glasses, that his eyes were amber from lid to lid now. “So, what, all this time, you’ve just been trying to _redeem_ me?”

“Not _just_...but surely, Crowley, surely...I don’t understand why you’re angry. Wouldn’t it be better, that way?”

“I am a demon,” Crowley hissed. They were both on their feet now, and Crowley leaned in towards him. “And I always will be a demon. I am exactly what I am. I _asked questions_ , and then I was in the pits of fire, and I am never, ever going to forget that. I will not _apologise_ , and I will not _change_.”

“I don’t want you to change…” Aziraphale started, and then stopped again. “I don’t…”

“I am a demon,” Crowley said again. His voice was very low. “If you don’t like that, you can get out.” 

Aziraphale’s stomach felt cold. He didn’t understand what was happening. How could his beautiful, kind, thoughtful Crowley prefer to be a demon? “But you’re better than that…” he began, and then started back as Crowley hissed properly, his tongue flickering forked through his teeth.

“ _Better_? Like you angels are _better_? Because you do what She tells you to and close your eyes and ears to everything that means? You condescending ssssshit. What makes you think I want to be _forgiven_.” He gave the word enough spin to make Aziraphale feel as though he’d been hit in the stomach. “All this time you’ve just been doing your angelic duty?”

“I…I…”

“How about the parts when I had your cock in my mouth? Pretty sure I never saw that in the Heavenly Manuals. If I were you, I’d worry less about others and more about myself.”

“Crowley…”

“Just shut up. I don’t want to hear it.” He turned away, folding his arms. 

“Well,” Aziraphale said, disappointment and hurt knotting up into a ball in his throat. “I suppose I will go, then.”

“And don’t bother coming back.”

Aziraphale walked as slowly as he could to the door, sure that any moment Crowley would stop him, would sigh and say that of course he understood, would…

He didn’t.

* * *

**London, 1941**

By the time Crowley hot-footed it down the aisle of the unremarkable little church in Marylebone, Aziraphale had almost given up hope of ever seeing him again.

It had been a long 79 years. At first, the silence between them had been mutual. The idea that Crowley could actually _prefer to be a demon_ was unimaginable to Aziraphale, and for several years he thought Crowley had said it just for spite. The digs he’d made about angels, the implications—! well, if that’s what he’d felt about Aziraphale all this time, it didn’t bear thinking about. Aziraphale had done his best to put their altercation and its cause completely out of his mind and for the better part of the nineteenth century had been more or less successful. When he thought of it, generally after a few glasses of wine, he was sure that Crowley would realize he’d been insulting and come round, treat him to dinner, explain that the whole thing had been a misunderstanding. But as the century drew to a close, Aziraphale began to consider things from a more troubling point of view.

It must have hurt Crowley deeply to learn that Aziraphale had been planning to restore him as an angel, especially at a time when he felt so vulnerable. It could only remind him of his demonic nature, cast out of Heaven, torn away from God’s love. Aziraphale might be certain that forgiveness was possible, but it was generally understood that, once Fallen, the break was forever. Crowley undoubtedly believed there was no hope of a return. At a time when he was rent with anxiety over the possibility of Hell’s torments, Crowley must have viewed such a vision of hope as the most merciless cruelty.

After that, Aziraphale thought back on his intemperate remarks that day with unspeakable anguish. He never should have said a word about it, not until he knew it could come to pass, and certainly not on that day of all days. Hastily, he composed a short note of explanation and compassion and sent it off to Grosvenor Square. No answer came.

He wrote again several times that year, and again the following year, and finally, in desperation, visited. He dared not risk a miracle to gain admittance, but he spoke to the housekeeper. Mister Crowley was living abroad. She was instructed not to give out his address, but she could forward letters to him.

Aziraphale wrote and wrote and wrote, trying to show his understanding, to soothe Crowley’s fears, to demonstrate and unfold his love. To, and he winced, apologise. Not that Crowley could forgive him. Angels couldn’t be forgiven—they weren’t designed for it. They were meant to be immaculate, incapable of error. As far as Aziraphale knew, he was the only angel who ever made mistakes. So naturally none of them had ever been forgiven for anything—certainly not by Gabriel. Nor by God, whose voice Aziraphale still longed to hear.

 _I miss you_ , he finally wrote to Crowley. _Please come back to me._

When The Great War broke out, Aziraphale remembered the moment when he had handed his sword to Adam—remembered the moment when he had watched, Crowley beside him, as Adam made his first kill—and he closed his eyes and sighed. He wrote to Crowley again, and after a while his letters to Crowley took the place of a diary, chronicling the news of his world—for he did not know where Crowley was, or if he would ever see him again.

When the Nazis thundered across Europe, Aziraphale was too old to be surprised, and he hinted obliquely (but without, he thought, compromising the security of his enterprise) that he was Doing Something About It. He hoped, wherever he was, that Crowley might be...he didn’t know. Proud? Amused? He hoped Crowley would still care enough about him to like the idea.

And then there he was, mincing toward the nave, ridiculous and splendid, sporting a new name and a sharp suit, and oh, Aziraphale loved him. And Crowley cared! He must, to bear the pain of it, to turn up this way and spare Aziraphale the inconvenience of discorporation, to risk who knew what torments in Hell, just as he had during the Reign of Terror.

Or maybe Crowley just wanted to see him again.

Then the bomb fell, and Crowley, brushing off his thanks, handed him the bag of irreplaceable books as though it were nothing. Aziraphale’s fingers grazed Crowley’s across the leather handle, the first time they had touched in almost eighty years, and Aziraphale felt it like a bell tolling in his chest.

“Lift home?” Crowley offered, walking past him over the rubble.

 _You forgive me_ , Aziraphale thought. This generous gesture was proof of it. 

And yet—forgiveness was for humans (and perhaps, perhaps, Aziraphale had spent so very long hoping, for Crowley). Surely, angels should not, _could_ not, do things that warranted forgiveness. 

Aziraphale had hurt Crowley terribly, and Crowley had forgiven him. 

An angel shouldn’t need forgiveness; but then, an angel shouldn’t love a demon, shouldn’t have spent six millennia getting steadily closer to one. If none of that had happened, Aziraphale wouldn’t have been able to hurt Crowley, either. Not as he had. Smiting was one thing. Wounding Crowley’s feelings and letting him down the way he had, that was something wholly different. 

A demon shouldn’t be able, or willing, to forgive. Certainly not to forgive an angel. And yet.

Aziraphale’s chest hurt, with the weight of this impossible thing. But there was nothing between them that should be possible, and yet here they were. Here they were, here Crowley was. He didn’t understand how this could happen; but he could do nothing but embrace it. 

“Get in, angel.” Crowley’s voice, no longer quite so high and tense, shook him from his euphoric haze. The last time Crowley had proffered him a lift, it had been a sleek black cabriolet drawn by a pair of sleek black horses. He lowered himself into Crowley’s automobile with slight misgivings, remembering that ride. But he would show Crowley his trust.

He was silent for a few moments, clutching the bag and its precious cargo. The inside of the vehicle smelt of Crowley, and Aziraphale breathed deeply.

“Got your letters,” Crowley said quietly.

“I’m—I’m sorry. It occurred to me lately that it might have been a risk, sending them.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. My side only uses the post for fraud and chain letters, sending people the wrong tax forms, that sort of thing. Don’t think it would occur to them that a demon would receive mail through human channels.”

“That’s a relief.” Aziraphale swallowed. They had been used, once upon a time, to much longer gaps in their relations than this, but it had always been so easy to pick up where they had left off. Now he felt awkward. “How have you been spending your time?”

“Sleeping, mostly.” The streets were still dark with the blackout, and Crowley drove with his lights off, quickly but carefully, avoiding pits and rubble. “Got up once or twice, looked about me, said sod it all and went back to sleep. After the Great War I decided there was some fun to be had. Been up since then.”

Aziraphale flared with anger. All this time he had been raging and worrying, grieving even, and Crowley had just slept through it all! How easy for him! He hadn’t suffered the way Aziraphale had—the time had been nothing to him.

The time had been nothing, yet he had forgiven Aziraphale. He’d let go of his rage, found his generosity, sought Aziraphale and repaired the damage. That had taken Aziraphale three quarters of a century and Crowley had managed it in a handful of years. Aziraphale’s anger melted away as quickly as it had come.

“But you—you’re still worried about—”

“I don’t think they’re onto us. I might have thrown them off the scent, but I can’t be sure. It was looking dicey for a while, back then. I’d still like—well, never mind. Let’s not talk about it. Not now.” Aziraphale could see Crowley’s eyes dart over to him, over the tops of his glasses. Amazing he could drive in the dark, in those things. Everything about him was amazing, really.

The all-clear sounded just as they rounded Greek Street. Aziraphale concentrated for a moment. “All clear on my side, my dear. No aethereal presences in this area.”

Crowley slowed the car, frowning in concentration. “No one. Safe for the moment.” He pulled neatly against the kerb in front of the shop. Aziraphale watched his delicate hands moving on the wheel and swallowed.

“Do you want to come in? For a—for a drink?”

“I don’t want a drink,” said Crowley, and kissed him.

Crowley’s lips were warm and urgent, his agile tongue licking in to stroke Aziraphale’s, and Aziraphale moaned at the taste of him, so welcome, so unhoped for. He felt tears burning his eyes as he pulled away.

“Oh, oh, we shouldn’t,” he choked, his voice high in his tight and aching throat.

“Angel,” Crowley began, running his thumb gently over Aziraphale’s lower lip, and then he seemed to register Aziraphale’s tone. He tilted his head, then offered Aziraphale his handkerchief. “It’s all right.”

“It isn’t! You and I both performed miracles tonight, Crowley! Showy ones, too. If they’re not looking now, they will be soon. And you’re still—” He couldn’t bear to say it, couldn’t bear to bring up what had severed them eighty years ago. But Crowley’s throwaway remark in the church tonight had not gone unnoticed. He looked up at Crowley’s face, barely visible in the blackout gloom, his mouth a grim slash, no reflections in his glasses, just empty black pools. Aziraphale wanted to embrace him, to comfort him, to consecrate their reconciliation in an act of love. But Crowley could be destroyed for so much less. He had to get out of the car before he broke down completely. He reached for the door.

“I—”

“Please!” Aziraphale got the door open, then his heart failed him and he turned back. “Write. We’ll Arrange—something. When it’s safe. Then I...then I can tell you...” he turned away and hurried into his shop, pressing the handkerchief to his mouth.

* * *

**Soho, 1967**

Aziraphale wrung his hands. He had last seen Crowley several weeks before, for a lovely tea at a new shop near his flat. They had had the most wonderful biscuits, and not a single mention had he made of this. So much had been smoothed over since the night the church was bombed (the night _they bombed the church_ , Aziraphale corrected himself sternly), and Crowley had never again mentioned holy water. Cautiously, they had resumed their meetings and, with the greatest care, their intimacy, though the most they could hope for were fleeting caresses in hidden places. 

Aziraphale now worried constantly about exposing Crowley to disaster, and prayed fervently for the secret wish of his heart: that Crowley would realise there was another way, that he could receive God’s forgiveness and become an angel once again. What a miracle that would be!

But Crowley, it seemed, still had no hope of such a thing. He had never let go of this notion of “insurance”; Aziraphale had just learned today that he planned to risk his own life to steal holy water with a gang of disreputable humans who had no notion of what could happen if so much of a drop of it splashed on him. The very idea made Aziraphale shudder uncontrollably. 

He felt responsible. Crowley would never feel the need to take any of these risks if it weren’t for the Arrangement, if it weren’t for their love. Hell would have no reason to come after Crowley at all if it weren’t for him. And Aziraphale had denied him this thing he felt he needed, had abandoned him. Just as—no, no, better not think of it that way.

Distractedly, Aziraphale peered out the window of the shop. The sun was setting, autumn dusk settling over Soho as much as it could in a neighborhood where the neon lights had been shining all day. It was Yom Kippur, Aziraphale remembered. Millions of people were praying and fasting today, asking God’s forgiveness for all wrongs done in the year—and asking one another’s forgiveness, too.

Maimonides, with whom Aziraphale had enjoyed many entertaining meals, had written a treatise on teshuvah—repentance, the condition necessary for forgiveness. Teshuvah required making amends, was the short of it. It wasn’t enough to just say one was sorry; one had to go to the person one had wronged, apologise, and make the wrong right.

Perhaps there was little Aziraphale could do to bring Crowley back to the light. But there was a wrong he could make right.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale was the one who kept wronging Crowley. Over and again. And Crowley—Crowley kept forgiving him. Just like he had a moment ago. Crowley _knew_ him. He knew the ways in which Aziraphale fell short of what he should be—as an angel, as a friend—and yet he forgave him. Every time.

**The Dowlings, and London, 2015**

On the one hand, Crowley was here, with little Warlock, having delivered him to Earth, doing his best to raise him in the ways of Hell, evil, and so on. Which was all fairly infernal. On the other hand, it was Crowley who had brought Aziraphale here, with the explicit expectation that Aziraphale would do his best to teach Warlock the ways of righteousness. Which wasn’t very infernal at all; and furthermore, Crowley’s intention in telling Aziraphale everything was to undermine the whole Satanic Plan in re the Antichrist and Armageddon, which definitely wasn’t infernal at all, hence why Crowley didn’t want Hell to know. 

On the other other hand, the Satanic Plan was part of the Great Plan, in which case both he and Crowley ought to be following it, rather than attempting to subvert it, and not doing so wouldn’t necessarily be getting Crowley any redemption points. 

On the fourth hand—this was far too many hands—Aziraphale was supposed, as Crowley had pointed out, to thwart evil, in which case he was doing the right thing, and therefore Crowley, who was also, at least sort of, trying to thwart evil, was also doing the right thing. Probably. Maybe.

Aziraphale, leaning on his fork and doing absolutely nothing in the way of actual gardening, just as he had been for his entire tenure here so far, nearly fell over when Crowley appeared, as if from nowhere, at his side. 

“You’re rubbish at this,” Crowley said, looking critically at the rose bushes, which did not, it was true, appear entirely at their best.

Aziraphale pursed his lips and fired off a hasty miracle. All the roses bloomed at once, in a slightly startled fashion.

“ _Cheating_ ,” said Crowley. “And rather too flashy.” He paused. “Though to be fair, I quite like flashy.” 

“It can’t be cheating, it’s a miracle,” Aziraphale said primly, then hurried on, “Anyway. What are you doing here?”

“Just been told I’ve got a weekend off,” Crowley said. “Some kind of family thing they’re off to, no help needed. Apparently. She’ll be fine, not sure how well _he’ll_ cope,” the tone indicated it was Mr Dowling Crowley was dubious about, not Warlock, “but hey, not my problem.”

“Right,” Aziraphale said. He could tell Crowley was leading up to something, but he wasn’t sure what. 

“So if they’re off, you’re not needed here either. I thought...maybe. I wondered. If you fancied a quick trip to London. With me. In our _own_ corporations, mind.” Crowley did not think much of Aziraphale’s disguise, and had made this very clear over the last couple of years. (Aziraphale, on the other hand, quite liked Crowley’s look; but then he always liked Crowley’s looks. Crowley was much more critical. And Aziraphale had to admit that it was possible he’d gone a little overboard in the teeth department.)

“London?” Aziraphale could hear the wistfulness in his own voice. It had been...difficult, over the last couple of years (disagreements over corporations notwithstanding) spending this much time near one another, in the same establishment, but simultaneously terrified of being caught by either of their sides. Crowley in particular -- he’d delivered little Warlock. Hell must be keeping an eye on him.

They’d begun to relax again, before all this, in the 80s and 90s. Neither Hell nor Heaven had been around very often. They’d begun to think that perhaps the risk was lower again. Crowley had never been willing to stay overnight in the bookshop, but Aziraphale had shut it on a couple of very fondly-remembered afternoons, thereby further cementing his reputation for unreliability among prospective customers, which was a handy side effect. But since the whole Last Days thing...well. 

Aziraphale curbed the impulse to check over his shoulder _right now_ , and said, instead, reluctantly. “I...I don’t think, though...The garden.” 

“Better off without you, if we’re being honest,” Crowley said. “I’ll shout at the borders a bit before we go. Come on, angel. I need a bloody rest.” 

Crowley knew what he was truly worried about. And he thought it was worth it. There was no way Aziraphale could keep on refusing. Not when Crowley used that tone of voice. 

“I suppose, a nice little dinner…” he said, hopefully, and was rewarded with Crowley’s grin, a little incongruous on Nanny Astoreth’s face.

Aziraphale, having stopped by the bookshop to shake off Brother Francis, waited for Crowley outside his favourite Thai-Malay restaurant. His favourite _Thai_ restaurant was a little too close to their usual haunts; this one was all the way over the river, giving it something of a feeling of security. When Crowley arrived—late, predictably—he was wearing, under a jacket, a deep red dress which hugged his body, with—Aziraphale’s mouth went dry—a slit right up the side revealing his undeniably spectacular legs. 

Crowley caught him looking, and smirked. “Yeah. I’ve seen you eyeing up Nanny in skirts.”

“I’m sure I’ve been doing nothing of the sort,” Aziraphale said. “I do not _eye up_ anyone, thank you all the same.”

“Course not. Wouldn’t do such a thing. Pure as the driven whatever and all that.” Crowley’s smile was affectionate, but there was a knowing smirk curling at the corner of it, and Aziraphale felt his ears go a little pink. 

“You do have beautiful legs, Crowley,” he said. Crowley’s smile turned a little startled, and for a moment it almost looked as if _Crowley_ might be blushing. 

Halfway through the main course, Aziraphale looked across the room to see a family of three, parents leaning over the table, wine glasses in hands, deep in conversation; child slumped with some kind of electric device. Having now a slightly clearer idea than he once had of what it took to keep a child alive and how few opportunities the carers for small children had for adult conversation, Aziraphale felt deeply sympathetic towards the scene. In other circumstances, he might have fired off a small blessing. It made him, of course, think of Warlock. “I do think,” he mused aloud, “that we’re _achieving_ something. With Warlock. The boy is hardly infernal, after all.”

“He has his moments,” Crowley said, “but yes, I take your point. Not exactly heavenly, either, though, is he now?”

“Human,” Aziraphale said. “Wasn’t that the idea?” 

“Yeah.” Crowley knocked back a slug of wine, and poked a bit more at his plate. 

“Free will, I suppose,” Aziraphale carried on. “Which—goodness, Crowley, I wonder if that means he can be _saved_ , in, you know, a,” he gestured upwards, “that sort of sense.” He couldn’t help thinking about Crowley himself, as he said it. Crowley was working against Hell’s plans; he was choosing his own path, choosing to try to save the world. Surely...

“Depends whether he’s actually human or not, I suppose,” Crowley said, tightly, then put his fork down with a clatter. “Look, angel. I don’t actually want to discuss work right now, okay? Either sort of work, the day job or the long-term one. Can you just... give it a rest?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, obscurely hurt. They were working on this together, weren’t they? But… “I suppose you did say, a day off.”

“Yes. I did. So dry up, angel, all right? We’re back in London. There’s a plate of—whatever that is—in front of you. Why don’t you tell me about that for a bit? Or whatever you’ve been reading lately, I don’t care. Just not that.”

It was a reasonable enough request, Aziraphale supposed. And once he had relaxed again, both dinner and Crowley’s company were equally delightful. Despite living in the same household, it was only very occasionally that they were able to spend more than a few minutes in conversation; their duties kept them in different parts of the house and grounds. And, of course, there was always the risk of being overseen. When they did speak, it often was about work, of one sort or another. Crowley was right; this was supposed to be a break. Better to talk of other things. And simply to sit here together, sharing a meal, felt luxurious, indulgent, almost.

And Crowley was beautiful. In this light; in that dress; always. Catching his eye across the table, Aziraphale couldn’t help but think of other times, when they’d been slightly less on edge, slightly less worried about being caught. 

Perhaps their respective Head Offices were, after all, just biding their time, waiting until Warlock was old enough? The two of them had worried about it, but they hadn’t actually seen anyone lately. Aziraphale had chosen this restaurant partly because it was out of the way, but maybe, after all, that was excessive? Crowley had been in the bookshop the day after he’d delivered Warlock. Surely it would be perfectly reasonable for him to come back for a little nightcap? And—he felt Crowley’s long leg knocking against his own calf—well, perhaps. Perhaps. 

As they left the restaurant, he offered Crowley his arm, and Crowley took it without hesitation. He was warm next to Aziraphale, and Aziraphale’s unnecessary heart chose to beat ever so slightly faster. Well; one picked things up from the humans, didn’t one? 

They walked up towards the river, under the feet of the Shard and through all the building works it and the new railway station extension were generating.

“There used to be some really good clubs round here,” Crowley said, screwing his nose up.

“I suppose it’s all...progress,” Aziraphale said, a bit doubtfully.

“Don’t try to sound like you approve of progress. You hate progress. I’m the one who’s supposed to like massive disruption and enormous glass tributes to capitalism.”

“I’m sure the clubs were full of people doing terrible demon-ish things,” Aziraphale said, not quite sure whether he was trying to be consoling or not.

Crowley looked sideways at him and grinned. “Maybe theoretically. It was all a lot more fun than this thing, anyway.” 

“And you call me a hedonist,” Aziraphale said. A little while later, halfway across London Bridge, he said, “Talking of hedonism, as we were back there...would you like to come back to the bookshop? I was reminded, this afternoon, there was a very nice case of port I got in just before I had to mothball the bookshop for a while. Never even tried it, which seems a shame.”

He looked over at Crowley, and despite the dark glasses could see very much the same desire that he was fairly certain was in his own expression right now; and indeed likely had been right through dinner. 

“I’d love to,” Crowley said, with a regret that had Aziraphale braced for what he was about to say, “but really, we’d better not.” 

“You’ve been back to the bookshop often enough before,” Aziraphale argued. “And you haven’t heard from Downstairs for a while, have you?”

Crowley shook his head. “No, but...I mean, your lot have visited before, too, haven’t they? It’s bad enough both of us hanging round the Dowlings. At least we’ve got, you know, plausible deniability. Disguises. Here, now...It’s too obvious.” 

Aziraphale swallowed. “Right. Of course. You’re right, my dear.”

Crowley looked back at him, and in the light of the streetlight, Aziraphale could glimpse his pupils wide behind his glasses. “Fuck, but I don’t want to be,” he said, his voice rough. 

They’d turned down a little alleyway, a short-cut through the streets north of the bridge, and the building they were passing had a deep, unlit, doorway. Aziraphale stopped, and pulled Crowley into it, already reaching up to kiss him as they leant backwards into the shadow. 

Crowley kissed back frantically, as though he’d been thinking about it all through dinner. Aziraphale certainly had. He slid a hand across Crowley’s hip, down his long beautiful thigh to where the slit of the dress started, and spread his fingers across Crowley’s smooth, hot, skin. Crowley growled in the back of his throat and hitched his leg up and around Aziraphale’s hips, pressing him against the stone surround of the doorway. 

Aziraphale licked into his mouth and relished the way Crowley pressed into him and nibbled at his lower lip. After a moment, Crowley wriggled a little uncomfortably, then reached under his dress and did something with his hand. He sighed with relief, and Aziraphale looked down to see his hard cock showing now under the dress.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “I did wonder…”

“It’s called tucking, angel.”

“I know what it’s called,” Aziraphale said. “I do live in Soho. I just thought you usually…”

Crowley shrugged a shoulder. “Eh. Variety’s nice.” He shimmied his hips, then ground hard against Aziraphale, who gasped at the sweet pressure of Crowley’s cock lined up against his own. He reached down to stroke Crowley’s cock, hot and smooth and hard under his hand. Crowley’s leg, wrapped around his, was bare, and the red dress was silky against Aziraphale’s wrist as he reached under it. 

“That what you want, then, angel?” Crowley murmured in his ear. “Get me off in an alleyway in the dark?”

What Aziraphale _wanted_ was to go back to the bookshop and take significantly longer over it; but that wasn’t on the cards. And there was something about Crowley’s tone, about the stone cold against his back and Crowley plastered hot against his front, about the muffled noise of traffic on the street at the end of the alleyway…He curled his thumb over the head of Crowley’s cock, the way he knew Crowley loved, and Crowley moaned into his mouth.

“What I want,” he said, pulling back from the kiss, desire coiling in his stomach, “is to suck your cock.”

Crowley’s eyes widened; he was usually more likely to be the explicit one. Then he grinned, a sharp savage grin, and leant back a little, rolling them sideways so that he was now the one with his back to the door. “Well. If you insist.”

Aziraphale sank to his knees, heedless of his trousers, and pushed Crowley’s dress aside. His cock jutted out, obscene and beautiful, and Aziraphale took it between his lips and found himself moaning as he took it deeper, filling his mouth. The fabric of the dress slithered silkily across his cheek, and he put a hand up, curling it around Crowley’s beautiful lean thigh to tug Crowley further into him. 

Crowley tasted musky, savoury, sour-salt, and Aziraphale relished the weight of his cock in his mouth, curling his tongue around it. Crowley, up above him, swore under his breath and thrust, harder. Aziraphale hummed and shifted his head as Crowley’s cock bumped at the back of his throat. He loved the overwhelming way this felt, loved the way it demanded his focus, the dark smell of Crowley as his nose was tickled by Crowley’s neatly-trimmed pubic hair, the soft noises Crowley made as he moved his hips, thrusting into Aziraphale’s welcoming mouth.

“You too,” Crowley said, his voice thick. “Touch yourself.” 

Aziraphale ran his tongue up the vein on the bottom of Crowley’s cock, then put his hand down to his own, palming it, feeling his hips jerk into his own hand. 

“Oh, fuck. Look at you.” Crowley’s voice was thick with arousal, and Crowley’s hands were in his hair. When he looked up, Crowley was looking down at him, expression unguarded and—loving—for a moment before he closed his eyes again and let his head thump back against the door. His cock was thickening further in Aziraphale’s mouth, his orgasm approaching.

“Want you to come for me too,” Crowley said. “Here, like this. With my cock in your mouth.”

It was enough, the desire and desperation in Crowley’s voice, the pressure of his own hand, the idea of how he must look, here in the street on his knees for Crowley, the feel of Crowley’s cock in his mouth; enough to tip him over the edge into his own orgasm. Pleasure arced through him and his mouth tightened around Crowley’s cock. Crowley thrust again, deeper into Aziraphale’s mouth, arm over his own to stifle his cry as he came hard down Aziraphale’s throat.

He sucked Crowley through the shuddering end of his orgasm, then, with some reluctance, let Crowley’s cock slip from his mouth and sat back on his heels. Crowley, expression opaque, reached a hand down and helped him up. 

His trousers were a disaster; and if he wanted to fix them with a miracle, he’d really have to wait until he was back at the bookshop, wouldn’t he? At which point he’d be better to have them properly cleaned. He brushed ineffectually at them, as Crowley tidied himself up so his dress was decent again.

Crowley leant forwards and kissed him, soft and sweet, and Aziraphale’s heart twitched. Then he shifted sideways, and tucked his arm into Aziraphale’s.

“Come on then, angel.” His voice was soft and rough, and Aziraphale was overwhelmed with affection. 

Neither of them said much, on the rest of the walk back towards Soho. But, Aziraphale thought, they were together; they were in this whole thing together, weren’t they? Stopping Armageddon together. Crowley defying Hell, however sneakily. There had to be a way, after it was all dealt with, that they could carry on being together. A way they didn’t have to sneak around in alleyways, looking over their shoulders. 

There had to be.

* * *

**Soho. Friday, one day to the end of the world**

It was a long walk to the bandstand. Ordinarily Aziraphale would have taken a taxi to the third alternative rendezvous, but he thought a nice long walk in the fresh air might give him time to think. He badly needed time to think.

The trouble was, he didn’t have time. _They_ didn’t have time, almost no time left at all. No one did. The world was set to end tomorrow unless they did something to stop it, and the anxiety that had been plaguing Aziraphale all week was positively shriveling his stomach. 

He had been so caught up in the book, in the possibility of discovering some clue in Agnes Nutter’s prophecies, that he hadn’t properly worked out what he would do if he found it. Now he had the information—he knew who the boy was, where he lived, everything—and what had he done? What was he doing? What _could_ he do? Crowley wanted to work out some disturbing scheme, to be sure, but there was still a chance Heaven would stand down, God would listen…

If there was no boy, there could be no Apocalypse. Aziraphale remembered that conversation by the Crystal Palace dinosaurs. If they could find the boy... But God would never forgive Crowley if he killed the boy. Even if the boy was the Antichrist. Even if it did save the world. And that was not a choice Crowley should have to make, Aziraphale thought, remembering all the times over the years he’d seen Crowley with children. Crowley cradling little Warlock, the tiny hand patting at her cheek. 

Could he do it, instead? To save the world? To save Crowley?

Surely, though, surely if he could just _tell_ Heaven, someone else would take charge. Heaven would prevent the whole thing from happening, and whatever that meant wouldn’t have to be Aziraphale’s responsibility. His shoulders hunched uncomfortably. 

They were an angel and a demon. They weren’t meant to make choices at all. That was for humans. But in truth they had done little else since they had arrived on this planet (unless it really was all part of God’s plan, and just at this moment Aziraphale had a hard time imagining that God had intended him to give away his sword, fall in love with a demon, and spend eleven years raising the wrong child). And now there was going to be a war, the most horrible war imaginable, and they would have to fight in it.

They were running out of time. Crowley was running out of time. He had been an angel once. He could be again. Crowley had flatly rejected the idea when he learned what Aziraphale had been planning; but now, finally, Aziraphale understood the extent to which he been doing Crowley a profound disservice by trying to orchestrate all this behind his back, without his consent. Choice was the important thing. Crowley might not be human, but if he were to regain God’s forgiveness, he would have to _choose_ to ask for it. 

Aziraphale would remind him of what was at stake here, of what he stood to gain (just as Crowley had reminded him, eleven years ago, of what he stood to lose). He would lay all his cards on the table. Well, perhaps not all of them; there was still a chance Heaven would call this whole thing off, after all. But he could make the offer. All he could do, he realised, was make the offer.

If only they were on the same side. This would all be so much easier.

* * *

**Saturday night, bus to Oxford, only it’s actually going to London**

_You don’t have a side any more. We’re on our own side._

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand and, when no responding pressure came, looked over to see him leant against the window, his breathing slow and shallow. Asleep, possibly. Quite right, too, poor thing. What an exhausting day it must have been for him. 

_Our own side_. What could that mean? Crowley had said it yesterday as well, at the bandstand. When he’d, well. When he’d firmly and completely rejected Aziraphale’s offer to be on the same side! When he’d made it abundantly clear that he would never choose God’s forgiveness.

Crowley had made Aziraphale an offer, too, of course. Aziraphale swallowed. He had never wanted anything more in his life. To be together, free, and safe. But he had been unable to hold the idea in his mind for more than a moment. Had they run away and left the world to burn, surely they would have been on no one’s side at all.

Aziraphale could not imagine that that could ever be part of God’s plan, either the Great one or the Ineffable one. So Aziraphale had rejected Crowley’s offer as well and—he tugged at his waistcoat, straightened his bowtie—chosen to be on opposite sides.

Except...when it finally came down to it, they had, both of them, made a different choice altogether. They had chosen the world. They had chosen to be on the world’s side; the side of humanity, and the dolphins and whales and gorillas and all. And it had nothing to do with Upstairs or Downstairs. Crowley was still a demon, and he had chosen to save the world. Crowley had chosen to save the world, and he was still a demon. And he always would be.

Crowley shifted in his seat. Aziraphale looked across at him and saw that his eyes, beneath his glasses, were still half-open. Not asleep, then.

“At the bandstand,” Aziraphale said, without entirely having meant to, but now he’d started he couldn’t exactly stop.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, his voice carefully neutral but the exhaustion ringing through it. His shoulders tensed, just slightly, and Aziraphale avoided his own wince.

“I—I’m not going to say, I wish I’d come away with you. Because if I had, we wouldn’t have been here. To, you know.” He waved his hand, trying to indicate everything that had happened. “Even if it was mostly Adam and his friends, in the end.”

“No one to sign for the sword,” Crowley agreed, and the wry humour in his voice reassured Aziraphale more than perhaps it should. “No, fair enough. Was a bad idea.”

“It wasn’t, though. A bad idea. I mean. It was. But…” He was getting himself tangled in knots. “I would go away with you, you know.” Said straight out like that, it sounded absurd, didn’t it? 

“Eh. It’s fine, angel.” Crowley squeezed his hand, and warmth ran through Aziraphale’s fingertips. “There’s time yet. Lots more places to go, now. Bit closer than Alpha Centauri, too.” 

“I shouldn’t have turned you down,” Aziraphale insisted.

“Nah. You should. Worked out alright in the end, didn’t it?” Crowley looked over at him and smiled, the raw affection shining through like golden light. Then he grimaced. “Well. For now.” 

The reminder of the likely aftermath of the whole business rather dampened the glow that Crowley’s smile had given him. Crowley pulled a face and rested his head back against the window, his eyes half-closing again. 

Aziraphale, reassured by Crowley’s understanding, nevertheless continued unhappily chewing over the last day or two. 

Oh. There was that, as well, wasn’t there? Ugh. _I forgive you_. Aziraphale heard his own voice in his mind and winced. Oh, what a mess he’d made of things. Lord, how embarrassing. How petty. How hurtful.

Crowley wasn’t the one who needed to be forgiven -- certainly not by Aziraphale, whom he’d never wronged. 

Aziraphale was the one who kept wronging Crowley. Over and again. And Crowley—Crowley kept forgiving him. Just like he had a moment ago. Crowley _knew_ him. He knew the ways in which Aziraphale fell short of what he should be—as an angel, as a friend—and yet he forgave him. Every time. 

All this time, Aziraphale had been worrying about whether Crowley could be forgiven by God, whether he could return to Aziraphale’s—rather, to the side that he had always thought of as his. But Crowley didn’t need to be forgiven by God. He was perfect exactly as he was, and he always had been. 

They could be on the same side, their own side, right here. In the world they’d chosen. In fact, that was the only way it could happen—the only way it could ever have happened. Perhaps it was part of the Great Plan after all. Or the Ineffable one.

God’s forgiveness wasn’t needed, here. The only thing that was, was for _Crowley_ to forgive _him_ , for how long it had taken him to understand that, and for all his trespasses along the way. And Crowley—Crowley understood forgiveness. In the very human sense. In the sense that meant that they could meet one another here, on this Earth, on their own side. 

Tears stung Aziraphale’s eyes and he reached for his handkerchief, keeping hold of Crowley’s hand. He mopped his face and turned again to Crowley, his broad shoulders slumped against the window, his rangy body spraddled in the seat, his beloved face smudged with ash and grime and trails of his own tears. Oh, Aziraphale owed him the world.

And yet, they might still run out of time. For all the thousands of years they had lived, they had never had the luxury of time together, not truly together, on their own side, freely and fearlessly. Every kiss had been stolen. And now they were in more danger than ever. How long would they have to enjoy this new and wonderful thing, being on their own side, before their former sides came to destroy them? 

Crowley stirred next to him, raising his head from the window, running his hand over his face. Then he sat bolt upright, boots hitting the floor with a thump. “Shit. I’ve got it.”

* * *

**Sunday, the very first day of the rest of their lives**

“To the world.”

They’d done it. They were here, together, in the Ritz. They’d saved the world, defeated Heaven and Hell (twice). They’d chosen the world. And they’d chosen one another. Aziraphale had only managed to make his choice yesterday, at the last possible moment. Crowley, he rather thought, had chosen a long time before. 

They needed to talk about it, much though he didn’t particularly relish the idea. He had to explain himself to Crowley, make it up to him. 

But as they tipped their glasses to one another, as Crowley met his eye, his affection visible even through his dark glasses, Aziraphale knew that they were, finally, truly here _together_. It was a heady feeling. He floated through dinner on the bubbles of that, and of still being _alive_ , and of the world still being here; and, yes, on the very good champagne with which the waiter was continually topping up their glasses. Crowley was more relaxed than Aziraphale had seen him in—centuries, perhaps?—as he slouched back in his chair and insisted that Aziraphale have another cake or three. They talked of nothing consequential, but neither of them could stop smiling, and they kept laughing at the slightest hint of something humorous. The relief of it all was incredible. And how lucky he was to be here, with Crowley, in this wonderful place. For a moment, tears came to his eyes, and Crowley frowned at him.

“You all right, angel?” 

“Yes. Perfectly. I just…” He smiled, slightly watery. “It’s been...a bit of a week. Decade.”

“You’re not wrong. Had enough cake, then, for now?”

He nodded, and Crowley gestured for the bill.

“Have anything in mind after this?” Crowley said, studiously casual, as he held out his gleaming black credit card to the waiter without bothering to glance at the bill. 

“Would…” For a moment, Aziraphale found himself shy. Despite everything. Despite all the millennia of their acquaintance. Friendship. _Love_. “Would you like to come back to the bookshop? See what young Adam made of my cellar?”

“You mean, you want to put your hands over all of your books,” Crowley said, fondly, tucking his wallet away into his jacket. “Course. As it happens, I checked the cellar. Kid’s done a perfectly good job. More than happy to help you check, mind.”

He pushed back his chair and stood. Aziraphale stood at the same time, came around the chairs, and tucked his arm into the crook of Crowley’s, before Crowley could begin to move. Crowley looked over at him, visibly startled. 

“We don’t—we don’t have to hide any more. Do we?” 

Crowley didn’t say anything, but his face was expressive; and he didn’t take his arm away. 

“Actually,” Aziraphale said, as they emerged onto Piccadilly, “the books weren’t the only thing I had in mind to get my hands all over.”

Crowley smirked, obviously on safer territory here. “Well now. I’m sure something can be arranged.”

There was a moment, when he stepped back inside the bookshop, where he almost forgot that he had things he _must_ say to Crowley. He might not have seen the bookshop in flames, but he’d seen Crowley afterwards, and he’d seen Crowley’s face when he explained what had happened. Just to see it all here, beautiful in the early evening sunshine…

Crowley had thrown himself down onto the sofa and was watching him with a soft, affectionate smile. He’d taken off his glasses; and seeing that indication of relaxation brought Aziraphale back to himself. 

“Crowley,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

Crowley’s eyebrows went up, and he looked slightly wary. “What for?”

Aziraphale closed his eyes for a moment, trying to gather himself, then opened them again and went over to Crowley. “So many things. But mostly, for taking quite this long to realise that...that I’ve been hoping for so long that you might be forgiven…”

Crowley’s expression hardened and he opened his mouth, but Aziraphale gestured frantically. “No, Crowley, please let me finish. I did once think that. Want that. You know I did. But that’s what I’m saying. I was wrong. All this time. You are perfect just as you are.” He took a deep breath. “I can only hope that you’ll forgive me.”

Crowley’s face was unreadable. “Yeah, I kind of guessed that at the bandstand.” He scrubbed his hand over his face. “Though I’d thought we finished all that in 1967.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said. There was no point in denying it. “I accepted, I suppose, that you didn’t want to be. But I still...I suppose I still hoped that you might change your mind, in due course. That we could be on the same side. But being on different sides, that was, it always has been, nonsense. We’re on our own side. Like you said. I’m just sorry it took quite so long for me to realise it.”

“Was that what all those blessings were about? All through the Arrangement?”

“Except I did your temptations, too, and it never once occurred to me that I should ask Her forgiveness for them.” As he was saying it, he realized it was true, and shame burned his face. “I only ever thought about the other part of it -- if you doing my blessings might somehow make you more angelic. It was—I was wrong. It was the utmost hypocrisy, but also, it was wrong to want to change you like that.”

Crowley’s hands unclenched, his face smoothed back into something like stillness. But he didn’t speak.

“And I—” Aziraphale trailed off. They had never spoken about why Crowley Fell. Crowley had made various throwaway remarks from time to time. But Aziraphale understood the official story as well as anyone could, and had in his own way put the pieces together. 

He had hurt Crowley so awfully. He had to make it right. “If you should beg God’s forgiveness for asking questions, disobedience, and rebellion, well then, I should be standing here a demon just like you.”

“You know I’d never want that. Never.” Crowley said quietly.

“That only proves that you’re a better person than I am,” Aziraphale murmured, and before Crowley could object, he said again, “I was wrong. You never did anything wrong.”

“Oh, come on, angel. I’ve done a lot of wrong things. Still a demon.” His tone was light, but there was an edge to it.

“Yes. You are. And that was unfair in the first place, but now it’s who you are, and you don’t ever need to be forgiven for who you are.” 

Crowley looked at him for a long moment, and then his expression softened, and he reached out for Aziraphale’s hand. “Well. Don’t think you need forgiving either, as it happens.” Crowley tugged at Aziraphale’s hand, until Aziraphale was sitting on the sofa next to him, their knees touching. “I know how those fuckers can do your head in, and you’ve had millennia of it.” Crowley was looking at him, a small, soft, smile on his face. “I—I appreciate you saying it, though. Cos you’re right. Well, I don’t know about don’t _need_ to be forgiven. I don’t _want_ to be forgiven, that’s for certain. But that’s all right, isn’t it?”

Here was the miracle of Crowley forgiving him, yet again. And maybe this was what it meant, to align with humanity: to be able to make mistakes, forgive one another for them, and move on. 

Forgive; and atone. “Crowley. What can I do, though? To make this right.”

Crowley opened his mouth, clearly about to shrug and say something offhand, and then looked hard at Aziraphale, and shut it again. A long moment passed. “Right,” he said. “The thing is, angel—I know we’re a team. That we’re on our side. Because yesterday, at the airbase, neither of us stopped to think, did we? We didn’t have to ask for anything, because we both knew what we were doing. Today, too, just the same. We are on our own side, already. So the only thing I want from you, from now on, is to bloody remember that. We’re not an angel and a demon. We’re not different. You know that, and I know you know that. I just don’t want you to forget it again. We’re us. On our side.” He swallowed. “That’s it. That’s what I want.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, softly. “We are. Our side. Oh Crowley, I do love you.”

“Yeah. You too, angel.” He brought Aziraphale’s hand up to his lips and kissed it, a gesture which reminded Aziraphale of different times and places in their history, then smirked at him over it. “Now, I seem to remember you mentioning something about _hands_ , earlier…”

Aziraphale felt himself smiling, then the all-too-familiar nervous clench of hesitation—and then he laughed giddily. No need for nerves any more. What a wonder. “Oh, yes,” he said, sliding his free hand up Crowley’s thigh, warm and taut under his palm. “It seems to me I did say something about that.”

He met Crowley’s eyes, golden and shimmering, and saw the moment when the penny dropped for him, too. No need to worry after each other. Aziraphale realised how Crowley had been on his guard every time they met, as he watched the last of that tension ebb away. Crowley’s leg went pliant, his breath rough and soft as Aziraphale leant in to kiss him lightly on his parted lips. “My darling,” he said quietly, and followed his mouth with his thumb, tracing the slight red swell of Crowley’s lower lip. “What do you want?”

“Kiss me,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale pressed his lips to Crowley’s jaw, marking the line from his chin to his ear, tasting his skin, his stubble, his pulse. Smoke and metal, just like the first time Aziraphale had smelt it, in the Garden, in the rain. “Touch me,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale went on kissing his throat as he moved his hands up over Crowley’s belly, to his chest, pausing to pluck at his nipples through his shirt before sliding over his shoulders. Crowley’s arms came round Aziraphale’s back and he tugged Aziraphale into his lap. Crowley leant his head into Aziraphale’s, nosed at his face until Aziraphale was looking at him, and swallowed. “Make it last.”

Tears stabbed Aziraphale’s eyes then, just for an instant before he wrestled them back down. He kissed Crowley’s mouth, open and wet, long and slow. Crowley moaned into it and clutched at his head and Aziraphale went on kissing, tasting his tongue, exploring the ridges of his palate, teasing his inner lip, withdrawing to nibble and suck and then plunging back in again. He curled one fist in Crowley’s hair and let it clench and release rhythmically in time with Crowley’s hips, which were now thrusting up against his. His other hand cradled the back of his neck, roamed down over his shoulders, traced the fragile edge of his ear. _Yes, my love_ , he thought, _we have world enough and time, now. And I have so much to make up to you._

Breaking the kiss at last, Aziraphale tipped Crowley’s head onto the back of the sofa, exposing the arc of his throat. Crowley was breathing fast, flushed, and very hard where he was pressed against Aziraphale’s belly. His fingertips were ten hard points digging desperately into Aziraphale’s hips. His eyes, blown wide gold, stared glassily at the ceiling. “Could get used to this,” he said.

Aziraphale’s cock twitched. “You will do, if I have anything to say about it.”

The corner of Crowley’s mouth lifted slightly, the smile Crowley permitted himself in public, and Aziraphale kissed him there. Every single thing about Crowley was so beloved. What a fool he had been. He dragged his teeth down Crowley’s throat in an explosion of greedy happiness and felt him shudder. Then he set to Crowley’s waistcoat buttons, going slowly, stroking him through his shirt as each one released. Aziraphale thought about all the occasions they had made love without having the time to undress, all the quick fumbles in ill-lit places.

“Take off your jacket,” he said, shucking out of his own.

“You’ll have to get out of my lap,” Crowley complained.

“I’ll be back in a jiffy,” Aziraphale kissed the hollow of his throat and levered himself off the sofa, already missing the hot press of Crowley’s body and his luxurious smell.

“Please don’t say ‘in a jiffy’ right now,” Crowley said, jacket and waistcoat off, boots kicked aside.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes and tugged his tie loose. Crowley’s thighs fell open. Aziraphale smiled and sank down between them. “There, you see?” He stroked Crowley’s cock lightly through his jeans. “I’m right where you want me.”

“Ngk,” said Crowley, in his dear strangled incoherent way.

“Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale laughed. “I’m right where I want to be, too.”

Where he ought to be, Aziraphale thought. On his knees, to Crowley. He looked up into Crowley’s face, his brilliant hair mussed where Aziraphale had been gripping it, his amber eyes crinkling at the corners into long lines bracketing his rarely-glimpsed, wide open smile. Gratitude roared up in Aziraphale’s chest, ferocious. 

He unbuttoned and unzipped Crowley’s jeans, keeping his gaze on Crowley’s face. Crowley’s eyes were locked on him, one hand playing lightly in his hair. Aziraphale caught the deeper scent of him now, his arousal rising humid and earthy and flooding Aziraphale’s mouth with want. But Crowley had said to make it last, and Aziraphale would give him what he’d asked for.

He slid his palms up Crowley’s thighs, thumbs pressing gently to massage the insides, and reached down to cup Crowley’s balls through the rough fabric. Crowley exhaled heavily, eyes still glimmering into his, and at last Aziraphale dropped his mouth down to nuzzle at Crowley’s cock, trapped as it was in its tight prison of elasticised cotton. The smell of him was devastating and Aziraphale could not forbear growling a bit as he mouthed at him. Crowley shifted his hips, and his hand dropped down to cradle Aziraphale’s cheek.

Aziraphale turned his face then, to press kiss after kiss into Crowley’s soft, dry palm, once again almost overwhelmed. Every single word, sound, and gesture Crowley could make, every aspect of him, every particle of him was precious and perfect just as it was. How could Aziraphale ever have thought of changing anything about him?

Bringing both hands to Crowley’s, he kissed the tip of each finger, and then with exuberant greed sucked three fingers into his mouth, running his tongue over and between them, tasting every bit of skin, every wrinkle and divot and pore and follicle in a torrent of worship.

“Fuck,” Crowley said softly, and Aziraphale licked his palm, bit into the meaty base of his thumb, dragged his teeth lightly along the tangle of green veins at his wrist, like vines, like all the green growing things Crowley loved. Crowley’s shirt was in the way and Aziraphale helped him shuck out of it before pressing kisses up the inside of his forearm, sucking a bruise into the inside of his elbow. Aziraphale’s heart throbbed in his ears and he felt precariously on the way to a mindless hunger. He pulled back, listening to the rapid rasp of Crowley’s breaths, watching the rise and fall of his chest. He was beautifully flushed, his lips bitten red. 

“Never seen you this way,” Crowley panted.

“I’ve felt it,” Aziraphale said, taking off his waistcoat and rolling up his sleeves. “I’ve wanted it like this, wanted you like this, oh, so often. I never dared.” 

“Now you’ve started, I don’t fancy letting you stop.” Crowley’s eyes raked over Aziraphale and Aziraphale had never felt more beautiful.

“I’m not going to stop.”

Aziraphale slipped back into Crowley’s lap for a moment so he could pet Crowley’s chest, running his thumbs over the coral nipples and rolling them between his fingers. Crowley arched and swayed and hissed like the serpent he was, and Aziraphale beheld him with reverence, heart and cock aching. He rolled his hips and felt Crowley hard beneath him, and Crowley grabbed his shoulders and ground up against him, teeth clenched around a whine. 

“Yes, yes, dear, all right,” Aziraphale said, trailing his fingers over the slight rise of Crowley’s pectorals and sliding back down to the floor. “Now get your jeans off, will you?”

Crowley miracled them away without a moment’s hesitation and Aziraphale breathed him in, gloriously naked, fervid with desire but free from the hectic urgency that had characterized their other trysts. “Angel,” Crowley began.

“Crowley. I have never properly told you how exquisite you are. How utterly, breathtakingly beautiful.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate it, but—”

“Forgive me.” And Aziraphale wrapped his hand gently around Crowley’s cock, stroking down from the tip.

Crowley’s eyes fell closed and his mouth fell open. He groaned.

Aziraphale worked him languorously, carefully, noting every shift of his hips, the moment when sweat broke out at his hairline. He stroked Crowley’s thighs and balls with his other hand, feeling the clench and release of muscles, the tightening of skin. Crowley’s face was awash in pleasure and his prick was a hot weight in Aziraphale’s hand, silken and strong, wet now with pre-ejaculate. Giving in to his own thirst, he bent to taste, and then could not stop himself from savouring on and on as Crowley moaned and clutched his shoulder.

Running his tongue under the sensitive head, Aziraphale glutted his senses with Crowley; the salt and sweet of him, the slick and steel of him, the smoke and sweat of him. His voice a spiraling cascade of vowels and broken bits of Aziraphale’s name, his fingers digging into Aziraphale’s deltoid, he was unutterably precious just as he was, in this moment and every moment, and Aziraphale would show him so until the last moment of existence.

Crowley swelled in his mouth, his cries climbing in a ragged arpeggio until his hips lifted from the sofa and he spent on Aziraphale’s eager tongue. Aziraphale swallowed his last pulses and drew off gently, laying kisses on his trembling belly. He sniffed quietly and wiped his his eyes on the back of his hand.

“Aziraphale. Are you crying?”

“What? No, I’m—”

Crowley frowned. “Aziraphale.”

“A bit.” Aziraphale sniffed again. “Only a little. I’m sorry.”

Crowley patted the sofa. “Come up here and tell me why.”

Aziraphale scrambled up a bit awkwardly. Crowley was still flushed and breathing heavily, and he felt he had no business drawing attention to himself just now. “I’m feeling rather overwhelmed at the moment. With—with how foolish I’ve been. And how generous you are. And how grateful I am to you. And. And everything.” Aziraphale mopped at the fresh burst of tears with his shirttail. “Oh, dear. I seem to have ruined the moment.”

The backs of Crowley’s fingers traced tenderly over his cheekbone. “You couldn’t ruin _that_ moment. That was fucking fantastic.”

Aziraphale could feel himself smiling even as the worry tried to worm itself out. “See, that’s just what I mean! You’re too good to me.”

“Oi—”

“Oh, hush. I can say it now. You’re retired.”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

Crowley gathered him fiercely into his arms, and the last of his anxieties melted away in the power of it, Crowley’s whipcord strength, his devouring passion. What a luxury to be held by him in his afterglow, rather than having to rush away. 

Crowley kissed with a deep, messy exuberance after an orgasm. His serpentine tongue delved into Aziraphale’s mouth, his hands clung to Aziraphale’s head, his voice rumbled in his throat. Aziraphale felt his love in it, and sensed something more rare: Crowley was happy. Aziraphale broke away to gaze at him, and Crowley’s eyes were closed, his smile shining wet and red.

“What?” Crowley said, opening his eyes, blown gold to their edges. Still, irrepressibly, smiling.

“You can’t stop smiling.”

“Neither can you.”

“Oh, my darling, let me make you happy. Let me make you feel this way every day.”

Crowley rolled his eyes elaborately but he was still grinning. He kissed Aziraphale again. “Stop talking.” He rolled Aziraphale onto his back, leaning over him and undoing his waistcoat, and Aziraphale surged with giddiness at being slightly manhandled. “Want to make me happy? Get these clothes off.”

Aziraphale toed off his shoes while Crowley made quick work of his shirt buttons. Crowley pressed kisses to Aziraphale’s throat and chest, then flicked his tongue to a nipple while caressing the other with the tip of a finger. The light, barely-there touches fired Aziraphale’s lust, and he arched up for more contact only to have Crowley pull away. Crowley slid down and efficiently shucked him out of his trousers and underclothes, then fell to kissing his inner thighs, sliding his hands underneath to grip Aziraphale’s arse. The tiniest needle-pricks of sensation followed the soft press of Crowley’s lips as he nibbled at the tender skin, sparking to his cock as it strained, untouched. “Oh, that’s—”

“Always did like a bit of fang,” Crowley said, moving to the other thigh. 

“Don’t stop.”

“Suits me. I could live down here.” His fingers tugged Aziraphale’s cheeks gently apart, creating a luscious tension in the flesh between them, and Aziraphale gasped.

He felt Crowley’s smile against his balls, and then Crowley was pushing his hips up, miracling a cushion beneath. He felt Crowley’s hot breath against his perineum and that instant, just before the inevitable wet delicious contact, was almost better than the thing itself. “Please,” he whispered. He didn’t have to ask. Crowley would give him what he wanted—he always did. But Crowley should know how much Aziraphale wanted it. How much Aziraphale wanted him.

The hot slither of Crowley’s tongue forced a cry from his lips. He writhed as Crowley lazily licked over his sensitive rim, skating the perimeter in a maddening fashion before teasing the opening with a flickering tongue tip, then back to long, languorous strokes. Electricity seemed to shock through Aziraphale with every touch, and his cock, hot and twitching, spilled pre-ejaculate copiously onto his belly. He dug his hands into his own hair, panting. He could stay here for ever. He could know this shivering, evanescent pleasure, the perfection of this moment for ever and ever. How could he ever have wanted anything else?

And then Crowley’s long tongue entered him, and it was too much, and not enough.

“Fuck me,” Aziraphale begged. “Fuck me like you did in Paris. Fuck me like you’ve just saved my life.” _Because you have. Oh, darling, you have._

Crowley’s tongue was gone, for a brief, bereft, moment, and then Crowley rose above him, and Aziraphale felt the slick tip of his cock begin to breach him, slowly, gently.

Maddeningly slowly. Aziraphale wanted more, faster, harder; but Crowley obviously wanted to make this last, too, his face above Aziraphale tight with focus, eyelids flickering over those beautiful golden eyes as he slid millimetre by millimetre into Aziraphale. Aziraphale arched upwards, trying to urge him on, and Crowley stopped altogether and grinned down at him.

“Ah, none of that. Patience, angel. Told you. Want to make it last.”

Aziraphale made an incoherent noise, and Crowley smirked. “You know you love it when I make you beg.”

“A-and what do _you_ love, dearest?” Aziraphale gasped, pulsing around him. He would beg all day if that was what Crowley wanted.

Crowley’s smirk slipped a little. “I love it all, Aziraphale.” He pushed in a little deeper, and Aziraphale drew himself in tightly around his cock, desperate for more. “I love everything we are together. And just now, I love you begging for it.”

“Oh, please, Crowley,” Aziraphale babbled, delighted to give him what he asked for, “please fuck me, I want you so much!”

“Do you now,” the golden gaze dropped as Crowley nuzzled at his neck, nibbled his ear, hot breath sending shivers down his spine and making his cock twitch. “Six thousand years and it hasn’t worn off. Fancy that.”

“Oh, my love! I’ve never wanted you more. Oh, fuck,” he moaned, as Crowley finally slid home. The deep aching pressure inside him was perfect—Crowley was always perfect inside him—but today there was something new in it. Today, he could look into Crowley’s eyes and see him, really see him. He felt as if he were falling in love all over again.

“Yes,” Crowley said, his voice rough with want, answering Aziraphale’s thought. He began to rock his hips, a slow and shallow movement that kept their bodies fully pressed together, his mouth seeking Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale kissed him, hot and open, breath to breath. “Oh yes, oh, my darling, please,” he whined, rutting his hips against Crowley’s inexorable control. Finally, as in Paris, the taste of Muscadet and strawberries a fleeting sense memory, Crowley lifted Aziraphale’s hips, tilted them back, and pounded hard into him. Aziraphale cried out again and again as Crowley unerringly struck his prostate, until the strokes blended together in an agony of bliss and Aziraphale came, spurting onto his belly and chest.

Panting, the first thing Aziraphale noticed when he came back to himself was that Crowley was still hard inside him. He had not rushed to his own orgasm, had not rushed to withdraw. He had lowered Aziraphale’s hips gently down to the cushion and was watching him, making the subtlest movements with his cock, drawing out Aziraphale’s pleasure and the aftershocks. Such a luxury.

“Thank you,” he murmured, giving Crowley’s cock a little series of squeezes and watching Crowley’s face go slack with wanting. “Would you like to come again? Inside me?”

Crowley grinned up at him. “Had a thought about that, actually. As we’re celebrating. Thought I’d like to come again, with you inside me.”

Aziraphale smiled back. He wanted the bliss of Crowley filling his senses inside and out; but more than that, he wanted to bathe Crowley in glorious sensation, wanted to show Crowley how much he meant to him, wanted to worship Crowley with hands and body, to overwhelm him with his love.

“There’s nothing I’d like more.”

“Well, when you put it that way. Don’t move.” Crowley withdrew his cock -- a momentary feeling of loss, but then Crowley was kneeling astride him, reaching behind himself to finger himself open, and the arc of his body was the most elegant and sensual thing Aziraphale had ever seen. 

“Oh, please, let me do that. You know I love it.”

“All right, angel, but ‘m impatient now—” Their hands tangled for a moment, Aziraphale’s coated in the slickness of his ejaculate, and then he pressed two fingers into Crowley’s tight heat. “Gah.”

“Yes, and you love it, too.” Aziraphale, who could miracle an erection at any time, was hard again just watching Crowley arch and writhe atop him, feeling Crowley’s body grinding and straining against him, hearing Crowley losing control with him.

“Hurry up.”

“Now who’s begging.”

Crowley stroked Aziraphale’s cock, sending shockwaves down its length, and almost before Aziraphale had realised what was happening, was sinking slowly, slowly down onto it. Crowley was always in such command of his own body, had always been able to make it do exactly what he wanted back when Aziraphale was still baffled by his own. Right at this moment, this seemed like the most perfect use of his ability that Aziraphale had ever experienced. 

Crowley’s eyelids fluttered closed as he bottomed out, grinding his hips down onto Aziraphale, and Aziraphale remembered, through the haze of ecstatic sensation, what he had intended to be doing here. He reached for Crowley’s hips to steady himself, and rolled his own hips upwards, startling a gasp out of Crowley. 

Crowley bent to kiss him, rocking gently backwards and forwards, groaning into Aziraphale’s mouth as he fucked himself languorously on Aziraphale’s cock. His tongue slid into Aziraphale’s mouth, and he bit gently on Aziraphale’s lower lip. Aziraphale pushed into him, kissing him back, doing his best to _show_ Crowley just how much he was loved. 

Crowley’s eyelids fluttered again, and he rose up, almost all the way, before sinking back down again, faster this time. The flare of sensation rolled through Aziraphale, the squeeze of Crowley’s hot body along his length, the strength of Crowley’s legs pressing against him as he worked to bring them both so much pleasure.

“My love. You feel so wonderful.” He ran a hand behind Crowley’s neck, lacing his fingers into his hair in the way he knew Crowley liked, and pulled himself upwards to take Crowley’s mouth in another, deeper, kiss. 

“Could say _very_ much the same about you,” Crowley murmured, sliding his lips against Aziraphale’s. “Gorgeous. You’re so beautiful when we’re fucking.”

Aziraphale rocked his hips upwards again, and Crowley shuddered. Aziraphale ran his hands slowly down the planes of Crowley’s chest, thumbs pausing to caress Crowley’s sensitive nipples, and smiled as the pulse of Crowley rocking against him speeded up. He knew Crowley. More than anyone else in the world, the two of them knew one another; and he knew what made Crowley fall apart. 

He scratched lightly, then harder, down Crowley’s chest, along the bumps of his ribcage, leaving red marks behind on his pale skin. Crowley threw his head back, and raised himself up again to push himself back down on Aziraphale’s cock. His thighs were spread wide across Aziraphale, and the muscles in the crease of his hips were visible as he moved. His cock was dripping pre-come. Aziraphale reached down to wrap a hand around it, and Crowley swore, body jerking. 

“This feels even better,” Aziraphale murmured, and devoted himself to touching in all the ways he knew Crowley liked best, even while his other hand continued to play across Crowley’s chest, teasing and nipping at his tightly furled nipples. Crowley’s movements were becoming erratic now, as he visibly lost control. Aziraphale swirled his thumb around the head of Crowley’s cock, and Crowley whined and bucked into his hand, losing the rhythm of his hips fucking himself on Aziraphale.

Aziraphale wrapped his free hand around the bone of Crowley’s hips, his other tight around Crowley’s cock, and pulled Crowley down on top of him, pushing into him hard. 

“Oh, fuck,” Crowley said, through gritted teeth; and it was Crowley now who was moving faster, Crowley who wanted more and harder, and Aziraphale gave it to him, matching his rhythm, the two of them moving together towards an orgasm that was approaching far faster than Aziraphale had anticipated. He couldn’t regret it; there would be time, now, for everything. What Aziraphale wanted, right now, was to wrap himself around Crowley, to feel himself deep within Crowley, Crowley panting into his shoulder, swearing and calling him angel, the hot swelling pulse of Crowley coming against his hand as he too came, pulsing inside Crowley, shouting aloud. 

“You,” Crowley said, collapsing on top of him and endeavouring to catch his breath “are a terrible influence. Next time, next time I really am going to make it last. Properly.”

 _Next time._ He liked those words. 

He quite liked ‘terrible influence’, too. 

“A bad influence, am I? Obviously I’ve learnt from the best.” He ran his fingers through Crowley’s beautiful red hair, and wriggled slightly to settle himself under his weight. 

“Yep,” Crowley said. “Evidently so. Suppose I’ll have to forgive you, then.” He raised his head just enough to meet Aziraphale’s gaze, and the love in Crowley’s soft amber eyes, pupils wide, filled him all the way up with a sort of divine ecstasy. And it was divine; because it was love, and love was always divine. He should have known that from the start, really; but then again, if he’d known it from the start, perhaps everything would have been different, and how could he wish for that, when he was here, now, with Crowley in his arms?

“I love you,” he said, again, and Crowley smiled against his skin, and murmured, “Love you too, angel.” 

And all, at last, was well.

* * *

_Forgiveness is the answer to the child's dream of a miracle by which what is broken is made whole again, what is soiled is made clean again. — Dag Hammarskjold_

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Kass for sharing Jewish perspectives on forgiveness. The paragraph about Maimonides is almost all her words.
> 
> We are so grateful to equestrianstatue for an insightful and comprehensive beta, without which this story would be much less consistent and engaging.


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